


Something Wild Calls You Home

by superheroresin



Series: Something Wild Calls You Home [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Military, Anthropomorphic, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Cat Bucky Barnes, Cat Clint Barton, Cat Ears, Cat Tony Stark, Cat/Human Hybrids, Conspiracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Urban Fantasy, Xenobiology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 279,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superheroresin/pseuds/superheroresin
Summary: Bucky’s barbed tongue slips out between two dry, pink lips and tastes the salty familiarity on Steve’s fingertips. The memory is distant, like a dream, and his left ear flicks as he lifts his head with renewed energy. “If it isn’t the Star Spangled Man With a Plan,” he croaks out, grinning wide enough to show his fangs.In which Captain Steve Rogers becomes the new keeper of the disabled hunting cat who once saved his life, and learns that the price of freedom is higher for some more than others.





	1. Five Years Later

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:   
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]   
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)   
> POTUS: President of the United States

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER REFRESHER:   
> I didn't know how to tag for this, so I'd like to include a disclaimer here that this setting deals with drastically altered political history which leads to different relations between nations in the present. This is not meant to be judgment or commentary on real-world politics, but just different circumstances that affect the plot throughout the series. The main countries discussed are Russia, China, Japan and the United States.

Steve wakes up with a taste like rancid butter in his mouth, and an ache in his neck like he slept on a bed of elbows. 

Nope, he thinks. Just his couch again.

“Why do I even own a bed?” He asks the inside of his eyelids. He manages the monumental task of staggering out from under his jacket, kicking over no less than four bottles with various levels of beer still inside, and finding his phone without even opening them. He’d had quite a bit of practice navigating the minefield of his apartment since he moved to DC. 

Despite the chaos of his evenings, Steve still keeps to a meticulous schedule between 0900 and 1700. If he winds up in dereliction again the director would hear about it, so the general would hear about it, and then Steve would hear about it, and Steve had been pretty much  _ done  _ hearing about it, so he keeps to his routine, does his job, and saves his messes for off-duty hours. How he manages to wake up without a hangover every morning is anyone’s guess.

He oftentimes feels like he sleepwalks through all of it, so maybe it’s the repetition and a lifetime of training that gets him through the worst of his nightly mistakes. Today is no different. Up. Shower. Shave. Breakfast. Clean shorts, clean uniform slacks, clean uniform shirt, uniform service cap, uniform necktie in a crisp Windsor knot. He makes sure all the bling—the Joint Chiefs of Staff badge, rank, bars, blue infantry service rope and nameplate—are all perfectly aligned with a small ruler on his freshly pressed uniform jacket.

Steve’s fingers linger on the purple bar with gold edges in particular, and he doesn't think about Sakhalin.

* * *

 

Steve is greeted at the gate (and reception, and the elevator, and main entry to the J-5 offices,) with a perfect salute. He always has a perfect salute in return, a cheerful laugh or a question about families or sports or Game of Thrones. Not everyone has time to say much when they're on duty at the Pentagon, but Steve always makes an effort to be personable, to prove to whomever was watching that he was, of all things, content.

“Good morning, sir,” greets Private Lorraine at the desk near his office. She’s particularly bubbly this morning, and since she’s one of the most bubbly people he’s ever met that’s saying something. 

“Good morning, private,” he answers back, effortlessly matching her cheerful tone. “What has you in such a good mood today?” 

“You’ll find out soon enough, sir,” she says, with a knowing wink. He blushes just about every time she smiles at him and she always blushes back. It’d be inappropriate if it were real, but it’s just a game they've played since she was assigned his secretary. Steve isn't sure how it started or how he could possibly have the nerve. He suspects her teasing makes her feel a bit more human too, since they spend so much of their lives trapped in uniforms. “Director Fury is in your office and I think he has good news about your cat initiative.” 

“Well,” Steve beamed. “That’s good for all of us then, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, sir.” She agrees in a tone that suggests what Steve just said was adorable. She might not actually see the value in creating special programs for feline veterans, but it doesn’t get in the way of her job. He could be the only person in the whole directorate—or the entire Joint Staff for that matter—that actually thinks combat cats deserve a second shot at life. He’d be damned if that managed to discourage him after everything he’d gone through to get his proposal in front of the president.

The Joint Chiefs public affairs offices are located on the second floor of the D ring of the concentric circles of the Pentagon building. Steve’s own office is appropriately nestled between them and the rest of the J-5, the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate where his father managed to invent a whole new occupation that kept Steve both too busy to make trouble and too disillusioned to care. Steve could say a lot about his arrogant, stubborn, alcoholic father, but not that he isn't a master tactician.

Most of the time Steve just has to worry about the President’s military “optics,” which is just a fancy term for social media status. Unlike the Press Secretary, his role is to manage how the public views the President when it comes to being Commander in Chief of the United States Armed Forces, in particular. It’s not quite a public affairs role, not quite a military role, and not quite an intelligence role, but somehow it manages to contain the busywork and infuriating politics of all three. Steve meets with so many different departments on a regular basis that he sometimes thinks the rest of the Joint Staff forgets about him. Probably just what his father had in mind when he recommended him for the post.

When Steve had traded in his fatigues for dress blues he had felt like an utter failure as a soldier. He didn't have much choice at the time; it was either caving to his father’s offer or face a dishonorable discharge. Steve still sometimes wonders if the discharge would have at least made his life simpler. Despite that fantasy, Steve knows he’d have no idea what he'd do with himself outside of the military, so he puts on the monkey suit and dances to the beat of his father’s drum.

Steve takes a breath, runs his fingers quickly through his bangs to make sure his hair is behaving, then tucks his service cap smartly under one arm. If his initiative is approved by the Director of the Joint Staff it all might actually be worth it.

“Wish me luck,” he tells Private Lorraine.

“Wish  _ us  _ luck, sir,” she corrects, holding up two fingers, loyally crossed.

Steve opens his door and finds DJS Fury waiting at his desk with another man standing beside him. “Director Fury,” Steve says, and snaps a formal salute.

“Captain,” Fury replies, saluting him in return. He isn’t smiling, but the director never smiles, and his shaven head and black eyepatch cut a relatively severe figure even for the battle hardened lieutenant general. The man next to Fury is wearing a nondescript grey suit and has a tablet tucked under one arm. He’s also wearing an expression of neutral pleasantness that is hard to be offended by but easy to forget; so in all likelihood the man is a spook. Odd how spooks always look like spooks, simply by the virtue of them trying to not look like spooks. “This is Director Coulson of,” Fury pauses, looks annoyed that he has to ask. “What was it again?”

“Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division,” the man rattles off proudly, like a patriotic poem. Cute, Steve thinks. It spells the word  _ shield _ . “Don’t worry, it’s a bit of a mouthful. I just wanted to introduce myself, since it looks like our two departments might be working together soon.”

“Nice to meet you, Director Coulson,” Steve says, shaking the man’s hand. “We will?”

Fury passes Steve a blue folder, stamped on the front with the Presidential Seal. Inside was a cover sheet prepared by the Chief of Staff approving Steve’s initiative, with the freshly inked signature of the President of the United States in the bottom right hand corner. 

It's what Steve has been hoping for, but somehow he’s still shocked. A little thrill of energy lights up some long forgotten sense of ambition and without expecting it Steve is suddenly excited. “Thank you sir! I am really looking forward to this opportunity to— Hang on,” Steve interrupts his own chatter, reining himself in. It’d been so long since he’s been enthusiastic about something he isn’t really sure what to do with it at first. “Why don’t we all take a seat, sir?”

“Not so fast,” Director Fury says, and remains standing. “I just came here to give you a heads up. The approval for your pet project is conditional. Your little campaign to show America how much this administration cares about the military’s discharged feline combatants is going to get a lot of attention from certain activist groups. That’s what Director Coulson is here for.”

Steve’s eyes narrow and he feels all the energy drain out of his brand new sense of professional pride, before he even has a chance to get used to the feeling. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Coulson flips his tablet’s protective cover back, and hands it to Steve. It’s a slideshow of images from some recent rallies throughout major cities in the United States, mostly showing scenes of overturned cars, looted storefront windows, and police in riot gear. It’s not pretty. It’s also nothing new.

“Captain Rogers, we’re sure you’re aware of the recent,” Coulson tilts his expression to the side as he visibly rethinks what he is going to say, “public acts of aggression committed by some extremists.”

“Hmm,” Steve says with a vague nod, tabbing quickly through the images. He pauses on one picture of a paddy wagon, where half a dozen tranquilized cats are literally stacked in a pile in the middle of the vehicle’s steel floor.

“We’re particularly concerned about one humanoid feline, in particular,” Coulson says. Steve wonders if he had rehearsed this speech ahead of time when a picture of the feline wearing a black mask appears in the slideshow, right on queue. Even from the blurry phone pictures and some surveillance screen captures, Steve could tell the feline has dark skin, and his sleek ears and tail of glossy black obsidian. “The Black Panther’s movement seems to be picking up some steam in the feral cat community. Queens and kept cats seem to know better, but the toms are predictably a bit more belligerent.”

Steve continues flipping through the slideshow, and it’s not lost on him that at least one third of the images are of Black Panther. The mask he wears is more like a helmet, covering the top of his head in a hard shell, while leaving gaps for his ears. The front of it was molded in the likeness of a mundane cat, eyes narrowed in a fearsome snarl, and ventilation holes across a flat mouth guard, almost like a paintball mask. It’s the perfect disguise for an activist leader, wholly concealing the feline’s identity while also appearing distinctive and  _ very  _ fierce.

Steve wonders if the media gave the Black Panther his nickname or the intelligence community. Considering how he regularly sees the two intersect at his own job, he supposes there isn’t much of a distinction. Clearly, they are more “concerned” about him than Coulson was letting on. 

“I’ve heard of him,” Steve neutrally admits. “Hardly an Osama Bin Laden type.” 

Though it was obvious he was expected to think so, with all the images of violence lined up conveniently next to the Panther’s striking form. Despite his fearsome image, the tone of his rallies tend to focus more towards feline dignity and community. Steve had quietly attended a few back in New York; he still isn’t sure if his father had ever found out about them, so this Coulson person probably didn’t know Steve could easily tell the scenes apart.

“No, but it's his message we’re worried about. His general call for cats to discard their collars and seek freedom from ‘human oppression’ through uniting with one another. After all we do for them…” Coulson trails off with a cynical little click of his tongue. His pleasant tone never falters, but he seems too well scripted, like he had predicted Steve's reaction and planned how to answer in advance, his emotional response only mimicked for effect. He shakes his head, playing at looking disappointed and a little sad. “They all start off as peaceful protesters, don't they?”

“Hmm,” Steve says again. Director Coulson is very good at it but Steve has been faking pleasantry for so long he can spot it from a mile away. He hands the tablet back, and decides to hate him.

“We think the Panther is recruiting toms from the retiring SCFs coming in from Russia and Japan,” Fury explains, and places his cap firmly back on his head. Apparently their meeting is already over, without any expectation that there would even be a discussion about this new directive. “The candidates for your program might have heard from his people, or know how to reach him.”

“So you want to recruit intelligence assets from my candidates?” Steve said, putting the pieces together. “You want to use my program to infiltrate the Black Panther?” 

“I’d hardly give it that much credit! Just think of it as a joint operation,” Coulson says, giving Steve a wink that he probably thinks seems reassuring while he tucks his tablet away under his arm. “Cats coming through the program are uniquely situated to assist their government in keeping an eye on a potentially volatile situation. They’ll probably be grateful to have another opportunity to serve. We won’t even need to use MICE.”

Coulson may as well wear a badge with flashing lights and a handheld sign that states he’s a spy after referring—with the world’s tackiest pun—about the CIA’s tactic for developing assets. MICE stands for bribing potential spies with  _ Money _ , appealing to their  _ Ideology _ , resorting to  _ Coercion _ , or stroking their  _ Ego _ . Instead the cats coming through his program will just be handed new orders and expected to follow them, without question.

“I see, director,” Steve says, when what he thinks is,  _ what a load of shit.  _ “Do I get a say in all this?”

“Not up to the task, Captain?” Fury asks, raising his eyebrow over the eyepatch. 

“I didn’t say that, sir.”

“Good, because this order was signed off with the full blessing of the President of the United States, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Fury nods;  _ and that’s that.  _

“I serve at the pleasure,” Steve says, because just like accepting a desk job at the Pentagon that may as well have his father’s name on it, this decision is well out of his own hands. At least he’s confident his own fake smile looks genuine.

“I look forward to working with you, Captain Rogers,” Coulson says, giving Steve a nod where Fury had giving him a departing salute. 

Coulson stops short at the door to Steve’s office, one hand clutching on the frame like he has to physically stop himself from retreating. Definitely not part of his script. “I’m a great admirer of General Rogers,” he blurts out, as if he’d been aching all along to say so from the moment Steve walked in the room. “Amazing things that man accomplished in Moscow. You must be very proud of him.” 

“Thank you, director,” Steve says, without admitting anything.

Steve collapses into his chair after they finally leave, and tosses his cap on his desk, irritated. The approval paperwork sits innocuously in front of him, and he glares at it, hating it more than if it had been a flat rejection. He’d been working on this project for months, a new initiative to help change the public appearance of an administration that was putting hundreds of SCFs on the street after the base closures. 

With the occupying forces pulling out under the terms of Russia’s new military independence, many SCFs had just been unceremoniously discharged, with very little opportunities outside of the military. Ungelded male cats are rarely allowed in public spaces unless working for some kind of security or physical labor.

Many wound up turning to vandalism and petty crime. Eventually people started to ask why all these tom cats turn up feral in the first place, and the President’s foreign policies were a popular target. Steve’s program would be the perfect way to show a softer side to the otherwise cooly perceived administration, and offer some much needed help to the cats along the way.

Medically licensed gelding programs for adults who want to make that choice, re-education, and retraining were all giving SCFs opportunities to work themselves back into civilian society. The provisional veterans license was the benefit Steve is most proud of, allowing cats without explicit keepers to still be considered legally “kept” and maintain most of their agency as long as they show some initiative in looking for work within the CFC’s placement assistance. 

It isn't a perfect program—he had to compromise a lot along the way—but Steve knows it could make a difference. Really, teaming up with the Strategic Homeland Intervention and…  _ whatever the fuck,  _ is just one more little compromise to add to the growing pile. 

“Shake it off, Rogers,” he quietly tells himself, and pushes the paperwork aside. The program is still going to make a difference to a lot of SCFs, he thinks. It  _ has  _ to.

Steve is finally snapped out of his pout by Private Lorraine’s polite knock on his open door. “I take it the President approved your initiative, sir?”

It only takes a beat for him to remember to put on a pleasant expression, or he’d be just as out of uniform as if he’d forgotten to put on his slacks this morning. “Seems so! I’ll get to working with Public Affairs on drafting a statement, and coordinating with the CFC on operations.”

“Congratulations, sir,” Lorraine says, tucking a thick blonde curl behind her ear and clearing her throat. She never forgets her smile, even when it’s time for her to get down to business. Steve envies someone who just genuinely finds a reason everyday. “I want to run the metrics by you for the focus test of the program name. So far Pet Vets is testing the strongest, followed closely by Companion Care. Pet Vets certainly appeals more to the younger generation, who don’t relate as well to the Russian occupation.”

“I was worried about that,” Steve grimly admits.

“Sir?” Lorraine glances up from her tablet, where she regularly tracks high level metrics for Steve’s reports.

“The idea that we’d call these soldiers ‘pets’...” Steve trails off, giving a hard look to the President’s fresh signature on the cover sheet. He doesn’t finish the thought though, and closes the folder. “Well, we’ll put a pin in the name for now. Let’s start with setting up the public affairs and operations meetings. I also need an appointment with Major Wilson at the Air Force Personnel Center to confirm the benefits for the SCF-a’s”

“Yes, sir,” Lorraine nods, tapping into the appointment app on her tablet. Steve’s already turned to his computer, dozens of emails loading into his inbox to start of his day. Maybe it isn’t so hard to find something to be proud of? He’s already looking forward to setting up the logistics of the campaign. In a way, planning a PR campaign of this size is somewhat like tactical logistics. He already feels a flood of relief that he has more to worry about than how often POTUS is tagged with all the Tweets-made-political statements. #FreeRussia from liberals who think military operations in Russia should have magically ceased years ago; #RememberDavos from the conservatives who think there's something to gain with being at war  _ forever.  _ Armchair pundits make more of a mess of things than they could possibly know when their cutesy slogans start trending.

“Oh, and I’ve taken the liberty to arrange for you to visit the CFC Lodging and License office on Independence Avenue.” Private Lorraine adds, before she turns to head back to her desk.

“I— What?” Steve stutters, looking up from his monitor in shock. 

“The cat kennel, on Independence?” She rephrases. “You’ll need to pick a model candidate to get the program started with. We already know we’ll get at least a thirty percent increase in reach if the public has some testimonials to share on social. Shouldn’t be an issue, right sir?” Lorraine is already engrossed in her work, checking Steve’s calendar and monitoring morning reports, which is lucky because there was no way for Steve to get his shit together and swipe the dumbstruck expression off his face.

“Right,” Steve stiffly replies. “Of course, I remember.” What he actually remembers is going home the night he realized he'd be working directly with a cat again for the first time since his last combat deployment and drinking himself into oblivion. “What time did you set it up for?”

“Fourteen hundred, sir,” Lorraine answers. “It's on your calendar.”

Steve hopes that whomever is working at the front desk of the CFC’s L&L office doesn’t know about the ban he earned at the New York branch three years ago.

Of course they wouldn’t, he suddenly reassures himself. The bureaucracy at the Center for Feline Control is so vast they had managed to lose an entire cat once. Steve’s heart kicks in a familiar way, like a worn out key turning in a lock it wasn’t meant for, stopping just short of opening, and he doesn’t think of Sakhalin.

 

* * *

 

 

In case you missed it in the preview chapter in  **Part 1: The Stars are Hiding** , [Superhuman Disasters](http://superhumandisasters.tumblr.com/post/155103357981/superheroresin-wrote-a-cap-au-featuring-a) made this incredibly gorgeous piece of Bucky fighting the Russian cat on the Sakhalin docks!  


	2. The Kennel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

Steve cancels the appointment with the CFC at thirteen forty. Yes, he’s aware how rude it is to cancel just twenty minutes beforehand, and yes he realizes they had made special arrangements. No, he doesn’t want to see the candidate profiles they sent over—he’s just too busy with Other Things.

After that Private Lorraine doesn’t ask any more questions, leaving him to his work. She goes ahead with rescheduling for the next day, only to give Steve one of her very rare frowns when she finds he has canceled that one as well.

In order to tactically avoid the task, he winds up spending the afternoon coordinating with the Chief of Staff for the various press beats that will involve POTUS and making arrangements with the CFCs med center. Major Wilson sends him a rollout schedule template for feline VA services, and recommendations for services specifically catering towards the SCF-a’s returning from Japan. Steve pauses when he catches the last line of his email.

_Been a long time, Steve. Want to get drinks after work?_

Steve’s fingers curl painfully over his keyboard as he considers the invitation. Major Wilson— _Sam_ —had been the first friend he made in DC. They met at the Pentagon’s athletic center, just gravitated towards the same bank of treadmills one day and seemed to be running equally fast from whatever they left behind. Soon it was competitive, then it was drinks, then it was a one night stand followed by a surprisingly easy friendship.

It helps that he hadn't asked about Steve's scar. Sam likely carried many of his own that just don’t appear on his rich, dark skin. They don’t usually talk to each other about their mutual problems, but Wilson’s offer reads suspiciously like a “Do you want to talk about it?” instead of “Do you want to get wasted and forget yourself for a night?” It’s strange how Sam seems to have a sense for these things; Steve has certainly never told him about Sakhalin.

Steve answers the rest of the email, flagging a few questions in line about some of the VA’s access to personnel records and classified material, before replying to the innocent invitation with an equally innocent response.

_Thanks for the invite. Gotta get to bed early tonight. Long hours are just getting started!_

Steve frowns at the words. Sam would probably be aptly suspicious of it sounding more like, “I’d rather go home and drink alone tonight.”

“Captain Rogers.” Private Lorraine snaps him out of his thoughts and he hits the ‘send’ button before he can rethink his excuse. Whatever, Sam will understand. “Just a reminder, I’m leaving early today. I have the thing with my sister.”

“Right!” Steve says, quickly noticing her cap covering her full, blond curls and her laptop bag hanging over her shoulder. “Sure, have a good night.”

“Hmm,” she says, lingering in the doorway while she tucks her tablet into her bag. “The CFC L&L office is open for another three hours, sir.”

“Is it?” Steve answers blandly, all of a sudden supremely interested in whatever is on his monitor.

“Yes, sir. I thought you might like to know the hours for yourself, seeing as how Outlook seems to have a problem keeping up with the appointments I make for you these days.”

Ouch. He had that coming. Private Lorraine is pretty shrewd when it comes down to it.

“Thank you,” Steve says. “Is there anything else, private?”

“Just go easy on yourself tonight, sir,” she says with a knowing glance, salutes and then turns away even as Steve raises his own hand to salute her in turn.

Very, _very_ shrewd, it turns out.

Steve double checks the time, his nervous knee bouncing up and down as he clicks out of his project management tool and closes the drafted PR statements that he still needs to review. It’s only fourteen-thirty, and if he takes care of the CFC now he might actually make it home early.

Really, he’s not sure what he's so worried about. He doesn’t really have to get to know any of the ex-SCFs that the Center for Feline control prescreened for his program. They all have the same sad story: In the military their whole lives, discharged in their prime due to the reduction of military forces in Russia, unaccustomed to living a kept life, unwilling to unable to afford the gelding procedure...

All Steve really has to do is close his eyes and point.

Steve checks his watch again, realizes he’s already wasted another twenty minutes doing pretty much nothing. Fuck it, he thinks. Wasting time is what he does when he’s off-duty. Plus if Private Lorraine is already dropping hints about what he skulks off to do when he’s off-duty it must have started to show in his work. He snatches his hat off his desk and heads out, leaving any thoughts of Sakhalin behind.

“Rogers,” says a voice right behind him and Steve yelps in surprise. He catches his chest before his heart could explode out of his ribcage, and turns to find a petite woman in a leather jacket behind him. She unfolds her arms and pushes off the wall where she had apparently been leaning, right next to his office door.

“Natasha,” he wheezes out, and slams his cap angrily on his head. “Don’t do that.”

“Not my fault you’re so jumpy,” she answers with one of her almost-smiles and Steve glares, trying to not look embarrassed. Natasha Romanoff is like a force of nature. Not like a thunderstorm or earthquake but like a shadow or black ice—harmless, but only if you see it coming.

She’s changed her look again from the last time he saw her, red hair shorter and curled around the bottom, a bit like Private Lorraine’s. He could swear her eyes were even greener than usual, too but that could just be the way she is looking at him.

Natasha’s little smile turns judgmental as she motions for him to not wait up on her account.  She’s dressed in street clothes like usual, but he’d hardly call her a civilian; she has no problem giving him subtle orders like she had been born to command. “Pretty early in the day for a boy scout like you to be cutting out.”

He’s never sure when Natasha is being sarcastic or not. Her delivery is so dry when she says stuff like that, while her eyes look right through him, like he’s naked and she’s amused by what she sees. “I’m headed to the CFC to pick out a candidate.”

“Ah, right. I heard POTUS approved your cat initiative.” Natasha falls into step beside him as they both head out of the D-ring, following without being asked along, like she always does. “I liked the sound of Soldier’s Best Friend, if you’re still taking feedback from your focus test.”

Steve winces. “Makes them sound like service dogs. In fact, I’m almost certain that’s the name of a veteran’s service dog program in Arizona. They have an excellent Instagram following.”

“People like dogs,” she reasons, and Steve returns the salute for the guard at the main entry to the D-ring before calling the elevator. “More than cats, at any rate.”

“Well… You got me there,” Steve admits, and resists the spike of annoyance that tightens his voice, along with the gross feeling that creeps up from the bottom of his feet every time he steps into an elevator car.

“Face it, Rogers,” she says with a sigh that suggests he needs to give up. She taps the button for the garage level, then turns to gently nudge his side with her elbow. “You need my help with this one. I’ll tag along, help you pick out a good one. A real sob story.”

“They’re all sob stories, Nat,” Steve argues, while keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling. It helps him control his heart rate sometimes, as the elevator descends below ground. Like he’s keeping his face above water. “That’s the point of the program. But sure, knock yourself out.”

“It’s cute that you think I was asking permission,” Natasha counters and Steve smiles. He doesn’t know exactly what Natasha Romanoff’s role is at the Pentagon (other than ‘it’s classified’) but half the time he suspects she’s his father’s spy, assigned to keep an eye on him ever since his ‘incident’ the previous year. She had turned up on his first day to show him around, and no pops up every once in a while to “check in”. Only after he got her email address did he realize she doesn't have a rank, serial number or even a proper .mil email signature. She just signs off with a little emoji of two triangles intersecting at the tips, like an hourglass.

Natasha is also the only other person who has ever seen him _pitifully_ drunk, appearing out of nowhere one night when he couldn’t quite make it home on his own. He’s pretty sure he had ruined her sweater after crying into it for over an hour about things he doesn’t even dare speak of these days. Monsters in the dark, elevators into hell. Dark stuff. When he hadn’t heard about that incident from his father he finally accepted that she’s not really the general’s spy. At the end of the day, it’s a relief to know at least one person in DC doesn't actually see the boy scout when they look at his freshly pressed uniform and smart, shiny JCS pin.

She is sort of like a colleague—like Private Lorraine—and sort of like a friend—like Major Wilson—but not really enough of either for those words to apply when he thinks of her. She is just enough of both for him to appreciate her company, even if he never admits it. Natasha is just Natasha, and it makes it easy to follow her to her car and hang on for dear life when she spins out of the Pentagon parking garage to head into DC, racing towards something Steve has been avoiding since he moved there.

* * *

It turns out there's a whole lot more to selecting a candidate than closing his eyes and pointing. He's only halfway through the stack of paperwork wedged under the strained metal clamp of the clipboard before he inevitably thinks, _I need a drink._

Natasha already got bored and left him in the reception area and Steve wonders how she can _possibly_ work for the government with such a short attention span. Steve pauses at that thought and remembers when he had a job that didn’t require quite so much, well, _this._ He stares down at the bottom of the page, where a thick black line waits for his signature and hates that he hasn’t been able to make a decision that didn’t involve paperwork in _years._

Without any intention or the strength to stop it, moments from combat missions suddenly autoplay in his mind, every decision he made or could have made on the field all at once. Some decisions that had resulted in success, some in failure, some in lives saved, some in lives lost. Objectively, Steve knows that’s what it takes to hold a position of command in infantry, the responsibility and inevitability of loss, but he’s swept away by a torrent of guilt and pride all at once and starts to lose track of where he actually is. Steve can’t catch his breath, and his entire body clenches to resist being dragged under. He tries to focus on something, looks down and sees the paper he’s about to sign; another life or death decision for someone, somewhere. But it’s not here, not in Washington DC, he’s somewhere wilder, away from the regimented order of the Pentagon and the uniform measured with a ruler.

Steve’s spinning thoughts come to an immediate stop, landing on something that feels like an anchor, like home.

_Frigid winters._

_The smell of herring before a snowstorm._

_The view of the stars at the top of the mountain when the incessant fog is blown away by the much more stubborn wind._

_Baseball on the parade grounds._

Steve’s hand makes a fist in the sheet he had apparently not been reading and it tears at the top where he’s pulled it against the clamp and just like that he’s back.

The bearded man at the front desk glances up for only a moment at the sound but Steve smooths the paper down and pretends like nothing happened. He initials the bottom of the form without reading the rest of it and turns the page as he wills his heart rate back to normal.

Now’s not the time to get nostalgic, he thinks.

The waiting area of the CFC L&L is glossy and modern, and looks like a cross between a luxury car dealership and an Apple store. Advertisements disguised as informational placards line the walls in backlit plexi panels with details on designer collars, financing options for licensing kits, and tax benefits for mated pairs. Everywhere he looks are pictures of gently smiling cats next to elated keepers, proudly displaying a license tag at their throat. Children with their arms wrapped around adorable kits, elderly women with a young feline companion serving her tea from a tray.

Apparently Kate Spade has a limited edition collar out next Spring. It looks blocky and uncomfortable to Steve but the female cat displaying it looks positively gleeful as she hails a cab for her laughing keeper. They are both wearing colorful dresses and high heels that are so pointy they look more like weapons.

Colorful fantasies of what it’s like to be someone else’s keeper. No wonder his combat cats can’t really find a way to fit into this business model.

“Did you have any questions, sir? Er, Captain?” The receptionist says, after catching Steve staring off into space.

“Sorry, no,” Steve answers quickly. “You can call me Steve.”

“Yes, sir! Steve. Sir.” The man coughs and Steve gives up, turning back to his paperwork to break off the sorry excuse for conversation. The receptionist is surprisingly tall and broad shouldered, with long hair pulled back into a slick ponytail and a full beard down to his chest. He wears a pure white set of scrubs with a red undershirt, and Steve gets the impression that he wouldn't be out of place in a mental hospital; an orderly for handling difficult patients. He also could have passed for a viking, if it hadn’t been for the over-friendly way he introduced himself while awkwardly gawking at Steve’s uniform.

Steve figures the CFC would be used to high ranking government and military officials stopping by to license working felines, but maybe Aaron was just that way around everyone.

Despite close ties with the military and the rest of the government, the CFC is actually a privately run organization, with profits exceeded only by oil companies and other countries’ GDPs. Amazing how the exorbitant fees of licensing cats go into the CFC's pocket, while caring for unwanted ones falls on the taxpayers. While Steve sits on a white leather sofa in front of a glossy chrome coffee table, he glares at the old fashioned paperwork wondering why he hadn’t just been handed a tablet and stylus.

Of course, if it weren’t for all that unreliable paperwork they might actually have a record of Steve’s past er, _encounters_ with the CFC so really it’s a stalemate.

Steve flips to the next page, and sees the long list of items cats cannot ingest. He feels a little guilty when his eyes fall on alcohol at the very top.

> **Alcohol:** Ingestion of large amounts of alcohol is very dangerous to humanoid felines. An adult humanoid feline can become intoxicated after only 25 mL of 4.5% alcohol (such as beer) and experience extreme lack of judgement, failure to perform trained behaviors, vomiting, lack of motor skills, lack of spatial awareness, lack of balance, and a loss in bipedal movement. If greater quantities are consumed, it may result in permanent damage to kidneys, loss of bladder control, followed by permanent damage to eyesight, liver, heart...

[Steve skips down the list as the side effects go on and on and on]

> ...Once humanoid felines are deemed a medical burden on the keeper, they may be surrendered to the CFC for humane euthanasia. Due to the extreme organ damage resulting in the casual consumption of alcohol and speed of which alcohol poisoning occurs, alcohol has become one of the leading causes of death and euthanasia in humanoid felines.

Steve frowns. He had never heard of that, even after training for command of feline units in the Army. There are strict regulations against humanoid felines having access to alcohol, but everything in the military is strictly against regulations for felines. He hardly expected one beer to be all it takes to kill a full grown cat.

Steve keeps scanning the page until he gets to the section on caffeine and his mouth drops. _Holy shit._

“Front desk,” Aaron says, his voice dropping several octaves from when he had introduced himself earlier and as he presses two fingers into his earbud to better hear the other end of the line. “I see,” he says, and looks up suddenly to Steve. “Yes, right away.”

Uh oh.

“Everything okay?” Steve asks, putting his paperwork stack aside as Aaron steps out from behind his perfectly cube-shaped desk.

“Captain Rogers, the woman you came with seems to,” Aaron coughs and winces, trying to decide how to stall. “Require some assistance inside the kennel. Oh, don’t you worry!” Aaron pats the air, trying to appear reassuring as he walks backwards towards the main door. “You can go ahead and finish up with your questionnaire and licensing documents. This should only take a moment.”

When Aaron turns around, Steve can see his white scrubs had been pulled up by the back of his chair, revealing a full utility belt. Steve catches sight of mace, a taser, and an extendable baton. Aaron continues through the heavy glass door that is elegantly marked with “Feline Lodging” etched into the front.

“Come on, Nat,” Steve quietly begs, when he realizes he’s left alone in the reception area and a sinking feeling in his gut tells him he might actually have to go in there after her. When she had offered to pick out a candidate for him he had quietly thanked the heavens that he wouldn’t have to step foot in the actual kennel himself. He should have known better than to think she would have brought anything other than chaos to this mission.

When he looks back down to the paperwork he sees his nervous knee is back at it again, so he presses his hand to his thigh to stop it from bouncing before he just gives up and stands. He swipes the sweat from his temples with the back of his hand (why is he sweating? The reception area is practically frigid from all the air conditioning) then paces between the sofa and the coffee table a few times before he gets up the guts to approach the door.

Steve peeks beyond the glass to find a a narrow hall, completely smooth on both sides, with another heavy glass door beyond it. It reminds him of an airlock from a scifi movie, like it’s designed to keep what’s beyond it in quarantine. Steve opens both doors easily—they are only locked for people trying to leave the facility it seems—and steps into a wide open lounge, like a hotel lobby, where round sofas are arranged artfully around low tables. They are all occupied with humanoid felines.

Steve swallows as he desperately tries to find Natasha, looking from one end of the space to the other while trying to avoid eye contact. The cats look on with intense interest, heads popping up above the backs of the sofas, ears standing tall, tails twitching from side to side. The lounge is meant for potential keepers to meet cats looking for placement, but really Steve feels like the one on display.

There’s no sign of Natasha anywhere, or Aaron for that matter.

Steve's been in kennels before, half a dozen of them throughout the state of New York in fact. The cats he finds there are always very polished, hair elegantly groomed, the coats of their ears and tails glossy and full. Steve spots kits playing in a corner, about half a dozen of them all from obviously different sires.

They are nothing like the cats he served with in the military with mismatched spots and scars, rough physiques for rough work, faces chapped from the icy wind and eyes bright from near constant activity. Those kinds of cats are kept on another floor, relegated to modest dwellings that look more like prison cells than a luxurious hotel lobby. In some ways these cats appear healthier, happier and better cared for but Steve knows better.

None of the ones allowed in the lounge are ever over the age of twenty five. Underneath the neutral stares and excellent posture are carefully concealed nerves. Their ears are constantly moving as they nervously consider the human in their midst. There is interest there but no small amount of panic at the thought of being chosen, mixed with a contradicting desperation at the thought of being passed over.

Soon these cats pick up on the fact that Steve isn’t shopping, just by how he casts around looking for someone specific and a few of them look away in disappointment, disengaging like showroom appliances taken off demo mode. Either way, Natasha would have had to pass through here after she had abandoned him to fill out the piles of paperwork. She probably went on to another floor where the veterans would be waiting.

“Have any of you seen a short woman with red hair come through here?” Steve asks the room. A few of the cats glance away quickly, and he sees a matched pair in the corner of the room put their heads together to whisper under their breath. Several flinch away at being asked a question, and hide on the other side of their sofas, facing away from the door. One cat with orange ears looks like she is going to speak but her companion tugs on her elbow and she pulls her yellow eyes away and goes back to staring out the window.

The cat closest to him, a female with unbelievably smooth, pale skin and platinum blond hair unfurls her pure white tail from her lap and grins like she wants to eat Steve for lunch. She’s the only cat Steve can see wearing something formal, a long, ridiculous evening gown splashed with little crystals and a white fur stole. Clearly a thoroughbred. “You’re an awfully big man to be looking for a small woman,” she says, when clearly what she means is ‘are you sure you’re not looking for a different kind of companion?’

“I think she might be in some kind of—”

“Captain Rogers!” Aaron reappears suddenly from a side door, holding a radio in one hand and quickly slips his baton away with the other. “I uh didn’t see you come through here. I’m afraid your friend might have gotten lost, so if you’d like to wait in our reception area—”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Steve blandly replies.

“Sir, I really must insist—”

“How much would it be to license her?” Steve asks, knowing the answer already: more than he could afford, but enough to keep Aaron distracted. The female’s gleaming white-blonde eyebrow curls with interest from where she remains in repose, one slender arm draped across the back of her red velvet sofa.

The cat knows he’s not interested, but now she’s curious to know why he’s lying, and looks on in amusement.

“Frost isn’t a military veteran,” Aaron answers unhelpfully. “Oh— you mean, for your personal companionship? Yeah, sure. Well, er,” he stumbles through something like a sales pitch before his radio suddenly squawks awake.

“She’s in the East-West corridor on Sub-03,” the voice on the other end crackles through.

“I’ll be right there,” Aaron replies, makes his apologies, and then retreats into the door he had emerged from. Steve catches him grumbling to himself, “how the hell did she get there so fast?”

“Sounds like you’re in a hurry,” Frost suggests, her voice smooth and hot, like melted candle wax. “If you head all the way through the dormitories through there, you’ll find the med center and the express elevator in the back that the humans use for them. It’s bright red. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, makes it two steps before he stops. “ _Them?”_

Frost gives an amused little huff; not arrogant, just knowing. “I’m not like the rest of these animals. You humans don’t call me the White Queen for nothing.” She walks her sharp, silver nails down the edge of the sofa’s velvet back, bored with her power. “And for the record,” she adds, glancing up at him with round, intensely interested pupils. “There is no _possible_ way you could have afforded my licensing fees, Captain.”

Steve’s face heats despite himself, and he suddenly understands the cliche urge to tug on the knot of his necktie as he leaves the lounge with the White Queen’s hot laughter trailing behind him. _Yeowza._

He reaches the dormitories, hall after hall of numbered cell doors, and quickly makes his way down three corridors before he reaches the med center, finds the red elevator and steps inside. His fingers hesitate over the button marked Sub-03 as he realizes that means he’s going to drop a full three stories, underground. He has to slam the button with his fist in order to get it pressed at all, throws his gaze up to the ceiling, and he doesn’t think about Sakhalin.

Once he escapes the elevator he follows the only hallway down and turns a corner to finds an conspicuously abandoned administrative station. It’s set up like a barrier, a solid desk that blocks the length of the hall, with a low swinging door that separates the rest of the facility from whatever lies beyond. Steve braces his hands on the top of the swinging door and leans far over it, just in case he could catch someone’s eye from the other side of it, but he doesn’t find a trace of any CFC staff.

Instead he hears an exasperated plea from further down the hall. “Miss, I told you, the public isn’t allowed down here! _Miss!”_

Well, that certainly sounds like Natasha.

Steve pushes past the little swing door and makes his way down the corridor. The voices are coming from just around another corner where a single, red door is set at the end of one final hallway. This one is different from the others he’s come across on the third sub basement. This one is bright red and made out of metal, some kind of high security fire door with no windows. A broad, white stripe painted across the front reads:

**RED ROOM: RESTRICTED ACCESS**

Still, so very Natasha.

Steve pushes it open, steps inside, and his stomach drops to his feet. The first thing he notices is the smell, urine and blood, and something like ozone that reminds him of electrical fires and explosions. The room is dark, with a large red light in the high center of the back wall, casting a bloody pall over the entire concrete box of it.

Natasha is there, looking entirely disinterested in the man in the white lab coat who had been shouting at her. He spins around at Steve’s sudden appearance, nonplussed by the sheer number of trespassers in a clearly marked restricted area. He starts to shout something else, but Steve can’t focus enough to understand the words.

The cages on the right side of the room, ten in all, hold naked, muzzled felines. The difference between these cats and the rest upstairs is like night and day. None of them react to the presence of the visitors. Instead they lay sprawled on the floor of their tiny cells, their backs to the bars so that all they watch is the inside of their prison.

In the center of the room is a chair, large and padded with restraints bolted to the arms and footrest.

On the left side of the room are several rows of heavy metal doors, separated by a bank of gauges indicating pressure and heat.

Steve glances from the little doors on the left to the cats on the right. It makes sense to house the crematorium in the euthanasia room. It makes sense that the cats don’t wish to stare out at the last door they will ever pass through whole. It all makes sense but it also makes Steve sick to his stomach and he quickly heads over to Natasha, who still stands unmoved by the man in the lab coat’s objections while she stares into the row of cages.

“Sir, are you with her? I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Right now!” The man keeps talking and Steve keeps ignoring him, because all he can think of is punching him in the face, grabbing Natasha and getting the hell out of there. He’s not drunk enough to be so reckless or young enough to be so proud, so instead he moves to gently rest a hand on her shoulder. It happens so fast he doesn’t even register that his arm is trapped in a joint lock until he gasps with pain.

There’s a brief moment where Natasha’s fierce green eyes look into Steve’s own without any recognition, and he has a flash of panic that he might actually need to defend himself, and a second when he thinks he might not actually be able to.

“I’m calling security!” The man shouts, and leaves the room.

“Sorry,” Natasha says quickly, like she has to break the apology off a block of ice, and releases him without softening.

“Understandable,” Steve says diplomatically, and rubs his wrist through his uniform cuff. For such a small woman, Natasha has a grip like iron. “I didn’t think this was a—I just thought that since it was a shelter and all…” He looks back over to the chair where the lethal injections are administered. Barbaric.

“The justice department sends the ones here that are _‘criminally irredeemable’,_ ” Natasha explains unhappily through her teeth, and looks down through the bars of the cage she’s standing nearest. Steve follows her gaze to see the miserable creature inside. The male feline in the cage is well muscled in a wiry, underfed sort of way, to the extent that the bumps of his spine visibly rise from the curl of his back. He’s lying on his left side, fingers tucked under the bottom of his muzzle. He has some trouble breathing, each one of his ribs expanding slowly with every gasp of air and Steve isn’t sure if he’s even conscious.

He wonders if the rare and expensive White Queen upstairs would ever be considered _criminally irredeemable_ regardless of any crime she may commit.

Steve squints and steps closer, catching sight of the cat’s long tail, resting bonelessly against the dirty concrete floor. Patches of pale gray fur show through the filth of kennel life and Steve can just make out irregular black spots. The leopard markings match the little gray ears poking up through a mop of dark greasy hair, which hangs in front of the feline’s eyes, obscuring his face along with the wide black muzzle that covers his nose and mouth.

Steve’s heart hammers inside his chest, trying to tell him that he doesn't need to see past the hair and the dirt and the muzzle to know exactly who it is.

“...Bucky?”

The hammering stops, and so does the rest of the world.

 

* * *

 

Since that leaves off on a bit of a scary note, I figure everyone might appreciate preview of Chapter 3 from the incredible [Dean Draws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/post/155859750615/commission-for-resinonao3-sketch-to-go-with)! 

(Look at those little sock feets! Unffff!) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think of Cat Bucky's fluffy ears and comfy socks in the comments. For science?


	3. The Triskelion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

“...Bucky?”

The cat stirs, coiling even tighter around his middle, as if the sound of his name had struck him in the back like a stone. Otherwise he doesn’t react.

It doesn’t matter; Steve knows it’s him. He’s already thinking through the dozen ways to immediately remove a feline from the CFC, none of which he has the proper paperwork for. That doesn’t matter either; he’s going to get Bucky the fuck out of here.

The Red Room door slams open and the man in the labcoat throws an authoritative finger their way. “That’s them,” he says to Aaron, who stands by with a baton in one hand and his taser in the other. Steve can always tell when someone is intimidated by his uniform, and Aaron has the sudden look of someone who wishes they hadn’t just walked into this pile of trouble when he spots him across the room.

Not reading the situation properly at all, the man in the labcoat marches towards them. He shoves his nose right in Natasha's face, under the misguided impression that he’s still the master of his domain. Steve can practically hear her crackling with energy, resisting the impulse to tear it off, to the bone. “I don’t know if you’re some activists or reporters or what but you won’t find anything illegal here.”

“Is there a reason you’d be concerned if there were reporters down here?” Natasha stiffly asks.

“Dr. Lukin,” Aaron cautions, his weapons finding their way back on his belt. “Let’s just all take a meditative breath.”

“Shut up, Aaron. How the hell did they even get past the front door? Nevermind—” Lukin snaps, when Aaron opens his mouth to answer the obviously rhetorical question. “Throw them out.”

“Or,” Aaron alternatively answers. “Maybe Captain Rogers of the Joint Chiefs of Staff can tell us what the trouble is?”

Dr. Lukin glares hard at Aaron, like he thinks he’s lying, then gets another look at Steve. “Joint Chiefs?”

“I’m here on order of the President of the United States,” Steve casually explains, adding a hint of boredom to his tone like it’s just something he says all the time. “I’m recruiting a troubled feline as a model recipient for his new SCF benefit program. I arranged ahead of time for the CFC to provide veteran SCF candidates. I want that one,” he concludes, and points to Bucky.

“He’s- he can’t be one of your candidates,” Lukin stutters. “He’s not even an SCF, actually! Just some junkyard feral we picked up.”

“Your records are incomplete, or false or both,” Steve says, his tone even and cool, his back straight and formal at first before he levels an accusing stare at the frazzled doctor. “Or you’re _lying_ to us. This cat served in the United States Army, stationed on Sakhalin for at least four deployments. He was instrumental in capturing Arnim Zola, and dismantling the RNS’s presence during transition of military independence in Russia. I’ve already signed the paperwork upstairs for my candidate. If you would kindly release his license? We can get out of your hair and forget about this frankly embarrassing situation.”

“Oh, that’s a bit more complicated,” Aaron cuts in, and when all the eyes in the room turn to him he looks as if he wishes he could crawl under a rock. “Captain, Steve, sir, the euthanasia program is a humane way to end the suffering of—”

“Son,” Steve starts, forcing the single syllable through his teeth. “Just _don’t._ Give me the cat. We’ll leave.” He’s an inch away from the edge of his self control, and now it’s impossible not to show it.

Aaron looks helplessly at Dr. Lukin, who's still recovering from Steve’s earlier dressing down and apparently incapable of anything other than an open mouthed frown of silent outrage. “Sir, I want to, I really do! But the euthanasia program is elective.” Natasha gives him a sharp look and he flinches, before pointing to Bucky’s bent back. “That cat surrendered himself willingly. We’re obligated under court order to keep him here, unless he requests to be transferred back to lab testing instead. Sir.”

Oh. Okay. Easy enough. At least that would buy Steve some time to have Bucky pulled.

Steve ignores the pounding in his ears and the sweat gathering in the small of his back, sets aside the fact that this is the first time he’s heard of an ‘elective’ euthanasia program, and steps closer to the bars.

“Sir!” Aaron shouts, arms out, ready to stop him, and even Lukin moves forward in alarm. Natasha pivots on her heel, planting herself in their path and stopping them cold. Steve ignores them.

“Bucky,” Steve says. He tries to speak softly, in as gentle a tone as he can manage. “Bucky, look at me.”

Bucky is still twisted tightly into a hard knot of mottled skin, and continues to shake with difficult, dirty breaths and ignore him. Steve reaches through the bars and touches Bucky lightly on the shoulder.

It happens so fast that Steve doesn’t even get off a shout before Bucky’s fingers are around his throat. Steve’s face smacks into the bars before his ears buzz with Bucky's low frequency snarl as it churns through his guts. Steve instinctively grabs at Bucky’s hand to try and wrestle free, but gags when tough fingers close around his windpipe.

Bucky is incredibly strong, much stronger than Steve, and his eyes are so huge and wild over the black line of his muzzle that Steve suddenly thinks this might not be Bucky after all, that he’s made a mistake. No. The years and grime and distance between them hasn’t diminished how well Steve knows his own hunting cat.

“Buck!” He chokes out.

Bucky lunges forward and his muzzle strikes the bars of the cage, then Steve’s hands, and finally his face. Steve flinches with each strike, trying to kick away as a primal fear within him warns him that the cat is trying to bite.

A shot cracks through the enclosed space, exploding in Steve’s ear drums and he gasps, suddenly able to breathe again.

Bucky jerks back and away with a high pitched cry of shock and anger, smacks against the walls of his tiny cell, then collapses. Steve hears him make a final long, drawn out whine before his muscles go slack. Bucky’s tail twitches where it falls, thumping against the floor like it's irritated its owner is no longer responsive.

“No!” Steve cries, throwing himself against the bars. He yanks at them, careless of the fact that they were all that just stood between him and being torn to pieces. He spins back around when the cell door keeps him firmly trapped outside. “What the hell did you do?”

Aaron is holding a pistol. He’s also lost all the color in his face and is shaking in terror. “Valium-and-ketamine!” Aaron screams, dropping the dart gun as soon as Steve stomps towards him. “It’s just a tranq, I _swear_ it!”

Steve looks back in the cage, finds the dart with the brightly colored cartridge on the floor near the front of the bars. He turns immediately to Lukin. “What the hell was wrong with him?” Steve demands. “I’ve known that cat for years. He’d never attack me.”

“It’s like I said,” Lukin starts up again, brushing down the front of his lab coat and straightening his bow tie; intimidated, but sticking to his guns. “He’s _feral._ That cat was caught and disciplined many times until he was given the choice. Go to the labs,” the doctor waves one hand to the side, then motions to the cages, “or volunteer for euthanasia. They get antidepressants that keep them mellow, but something about the chair makes them less _civilized._ They barely know how to speak English anymore once they make it this far.”

“Literally everything you just said makes me sick,” Steve growls.

“I would have told you sooner if you hadn’t rushed in here like some jack booted thugs! This is a fully legal operation Captain so-and-so, and if you hadn’t—”

“Captain Rogers,” Natasha starts, ignoring Lukin who sputters out indignantly when Steve turns away. She hands his service cap back to him, and offers him a placating smile. If Steve didn’t know any better he would think she’s trying to get him to back down, but she makes sure to catch his eye.

Subterfuge isn’t a natural fit for a grunt, but Steve picks up on Natasha’s subtle cue. He tucks his cap politely under his arm and tries to relax as she continues. “I would suggest that since this cat is clearly unable to answer, we relocate him outside of the Red Room and wait until the tranquilizers wear off. The DOD has authority to pull an SCF from the CFC for any reason, and since the CFC failed to ensure this SCF could confirm his participation in this… humane euthanasia program, I think it’s clearly in your best interest to comply with our request.”

Good thinking. Better than punching. More legal. Steve is grateful he followed her lead.

“Or I could come back here with a DOD auditing team to inspect how military trained assets are disposed of,” Steve adds, picking up on the thread she pulled and upping the stakes. “The President has been particularly sensitive to how his administration has been perceived when it comes to the care and sustainability of feline combatants. He wouldn’t be impressed to learn the ideal candidate for his new feline benefit was euthanized due to clerical issues.”

Dr. Lukin bawks, Aaron gulps.

“I’ll… work on the transfer straight away.” Dr. Lukin confirms. “Aaron. Get Miller and Wade down here with a stretcher. We’ll relocate him to Sub-02 dormitories before he wakes up.”

“I want him in the same dorms as the rest of my candidates.” Steve figures he may as well keep up the pretense that Bucky is part of a selection. “I believe Aaron already mentioned they were being held on Sub-01.”

Lukin clenches his jaw, glares at Aaron, but nods. “Sub-01 dormitories,” he amends. “It’ll take about a day for him to be able to respond to direct questions so don’t bother coming back until Friday morning. That’s the day he was scheduled for the chair anyway.”

_The chair._

Barbaric. Fucking barbaric!

“Yes, Dr. Lukin,” Aaron says, and goes for his radio to call Miller and Wade.

“Aaron,” Steve interjects. “I’m holding you personally responsible if anything, _anything at all_ , happens to this cat in the next 48 hours.”

Aaron’s eyes go huge, like he’s just been called to the front of the class right before the bell rings. “Why me?”

“Because I know I can count on you.” Steve is being manipulative, but he doesn’t care. The world can take what’s left of his dignity. “Can’t I?”

“Yes, sir!” Aaron actually manages an awkward, civilian salute before he gets back on his radio with renewed purpose. Dr. Lukin looks like his head is going to light on fire through sheer force of will.

“Do you have any other demands, Captain Rogers?”

“No demands,” Steve says with an amicable smile. “Just expectations. I think you know what they are by now.”

“We’ll see you on Friday,” Natasha says and heads for the door without looking back.

Steve takes a step to follow then stops with a small grunt, as if his chest bumped into a physical wall. He knows he shouldn’t, knows it makes him look sentimental, but he can’t just walk away. He turns back to Bucky’s cell and crouches down. Bucky hasn’t moved from where he landed on his side, panting in those short, scared bursts, with his head near the bars. His tail has gone still by now.

Steve reaches in and rests his hand lightly on Bucky’s head, fingers curling around Bucky’s ear. It’s still just as soft as Steve remembers, delicate as a feather. Steve gives it a gentle squeeze, then follows Natasha out of the building.

When they make it into the parking lot Natasha gets into her car without hesitating, but Steve feels like he’s trudging through quick drying cement. His legs struggle to move forward until he finally stops and looks back. The massive structure of the CFC is divided up into the three main sections for each division: Licensing & Lodging, Breeding, and Training. The whole thing together is referred to as the Triskelion, for the three huge connected towers that make up the overwhelming structure. It looks like a monster, an impenetrable closed fist that Steve has just escaped, while a fishing line lodged in his ribcage painfully tugs him back towards it.

He is so _fucking_ close, and he had to _walk away._

* * *

Instead of going home, Natasha and Steve head back to the Pentagon. Steve rides in silence, ignoring everything beyond the middle distance as he thinks of all the ways he can force the CFC’s hand.

Natasha had been only slightly bluffing when she said the DOD could request an SCF for any reason. Steve had tried that himself, in a former life, but it the order has to be issued for an explicit purpose, and signed off by a ranking colonel or higher. It’s like checking out a battery of heavy artillery—possible, but not just anyone within the DOD can walk away with one.

In Bucky’s case, his military record had been misfiled without his CFC identification. One clerical mistake, and he had been lost forever inside the system. Then, of all the kennels in the United States, Bucky shows up here in Washington DC, five years after Sakhalin, like he’s placed there just for Steve to find.

He catches a look from Natasha out of the corner of his eye. “You’ve been awfully quiet,” she says softly. The power of her sports car growls beneath them as they make their way down Arlington Bullevard, past the cemetery.

“Did you know he was there?” Steve asks, suddenly suspicious.

“Who?”

“Don’t play stupid, Romanoff.” Steve winces and backs down when she gives him a narrow look. Warning received. “Sorry. I’m a little on edge.”

“Understandable,” she says softly, echoing his earlier tone when he had to tell her the same thing. She had seemed pretty unsettled to find those cages, and Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen Natasha unsettled. “Think Fury will sign off on the release?”

Guess she knew her own bluff.

“I don’t know. Maybe? Bucky is a perfect candidate. He was part of a huge op on Sakhalin. I got a _medal_ for leading the team that captured Arnim Zola.”

“Two,” she reminds him and Steve’s hand instinctively rises to the ribbons racked up on the front of his uniform.

“Two,” he repeats, fingers finding the purple ribbon without him having to look. He got a scratch down his leg, barely anything at all, and the president gave him a Purple Heart. Yet Bucky, who had saved his life, loses his arm and gets—

Steve blinks. That’s it. “He lost his arm.”

“Must have been rough,” Natasha reasons, keeping her eyes on the road. “Getting a medal when he just got a discharge.”

“No, no,” Steve snaps into action, opens up his phone, logs into his department’s remote file share, and starts digging. “Bucky. He lost his arm. Everything in the kennel happened so fast I didn’t get a good look, but it’s in his military record.” Natasha is listening, but Steve is talking with himself at this point, walking through a previously unremarkable stipulation in his program’s terms and conditions. “There is one provision in the program that I had to sign away to this private company. I hated it at the time but in this case… What was it? Stark- something.” Steve keeps scrolling, his mind narrowing down on his target as the plan formulates. “Stark Industries. They have an experimental new robotic limb technology, a semi-permanent prosthesis. The government gave them exclusive rights to military veterans returning from the field.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad?”

“Not on the face of it, no. Of course, those high tech limbs are ridiculously expensive and highly experimental. Instead of the VA or the SCF initiative paying for a low cost alternative they have to get one through Stark Industries. It’s a total racket, and it’s actually causing POTUS no small amount of grief since he alienated Pym Technologies in the process. They both provide advanced military weapons systems, so Pym didn’t appreciate such a sweeping partnership with their competitor. The one saving grace? A free prosthetic to our lucky model candidate. It proves the efficacy of the prosthetic to the Department of Defense, and Stark gets to look charitable in a high profile PR campaign. It wasn’t guaranteed we’d find an amputee for our model candidate, but the Chief of Staff made it clear that it's mutually beneficial to take advantage of this partnership...”

Steve knows he’s rambling by now but Natasha doesn’t seem to mind. She has no trouble focusing on driving as he works through the bureaucratic puzzle. She pulls up into the passenger loading zone, and it isn’t until Steve realizes she’s waiting for him to get that he puts together she’s dropping him off alone.

“You’re not coming to talk to Fury?” Steve asks, unbuckling from the low seat.

“Why would I?” She asks. Oh, right. Not a colleague. “I have some work to do myself, Rogers. Can’t always tag along.”

“Sure, of course,” he says, and hastily gets out of the car with his hat and phone. Right as he goes to shut the door he stalls and leans back in. “You think he’ll be okay in there? They won’t—  behind our backs…”

“I’ll make sure of it,” she says, meeting his eye with a firm nod.

Steve doesn’t know what Natasha’s exact job is, and as a rule Steve doesn’t rely on spies, but when she gives him an answer like that he knows he can trust her. Not quite a colleague and not quite a friend, but an ally for sure. “Congratulations, Rogers. You found your cat. Now, go convince Fury to let you keep him.”

* * *

“Request denied,” Director Fury answers, after Steve presents his case.

“And if you look at the— What?” Steve’s words stumble over his aborted momentum, and he nearly drops the binder clutched to his chest of the Stark Industries prosthesis program cost-benefit analysis he had prepared. It still smells like freshly unsealed plastic. “I don’t. Understand.”

“I said no, Captain.” Director Fury isn’t even looking up from his tablet, and continues scrolling through the morning reports. It’s already ten thirty hours, since Steve politely waited a whole agonizing sixty minutes before jumping into the Director’s office with his request. The coffee in Fury’s JCS mug smells amazing.

“No.” Steve repeats unable to muster any inflection. Should he have re-tied his necktie and put his jacket back on? Come in with more pomp and circumstance to get the director’s attention?

_No?_

After he stayed up through the entire night putting all the necessary documents in order? After five years of searching, and three of drinking away his guilt? After dead ends and missed connections and favors from his fucking asshole father?

_No?_

“Is there something else I can help you with?” Fury asks, finally looking up. Surprised confusion flits across his features, as if he just now notices how disheveled Steve is, but he doesn’t remark on it.

“I— _No?_ May I ask why, sir?”

“I would think you know the answer to that. The president needs model metrics out of this initiative. Not all the cats that come through the program will be squeaky clean, but your candidate has more than a few arrests.” Fury taps on the folder he hastily flipped through and Steve winces. Apparently he hadn’t been clever enough keeping Bucky’s arrest record pinned in the back of the file. “Petty theft, assault, suspected ties with the Russian mafia? Not to mention the miles of misdemeanors for missing nearly all of his compulsory calls to the CFC. Maybe he could be _a_ candidate in the future but he’s hardly a _model_ candidate, captain. Pick someone else.”

Steve is so stunned he forgets his defense. It feels like it’s been weeks since he learned Bucky is in the Red Room, awaiting euthanasia for being found ‘criminally irredeemable’. Had Steve really not thought up a counter to that argument? The whole program exists to show the model citizens that old combat felines could become if given the proper tools to succeed. “He’s a war hero,” Steve says, but he’s already gone through Bucky’s military accomplishments once and Fury isn’t the sort that appreciates having things repeated to him. “He saved my life,” he tries again, but his voice has gone lame, like a horse that just can’t run another mile.

He’s so close, and yet there’s still miles between him Bucky’s safe return. It’s like they are trapped in Zeno’s paradox, only ever achieving a halfway point no matter how close he seems to get.

He had just touched Bucky’s ear, hours ago.

“Look, I get it,” Fury starts, and Steve’s mouth clicks shut. Why does everyone keep trying to convince him that they get it when the clearly fucking do _not._ “I know how it can be out there on the front lines. Life and death brings soldiers awfully close. You went through a horrific ordeal when your team brought in Zola. You feel like you owe this cat your life, and that’s admirable but paying back a personal debt isn’t what this program is about. You’re just too close to this one to see it.”

“Do you mean,” Steve struggles to get the words out. “If this cat hadn’t been assigned my SCF-h on Sakhalin you wouldn’t have rejected him as a candidate?”

“If this cat hadn’t been assigned your SCF-h on Sakhalin would you have trespassed at the CFC and dragged him out of the Red Room?” Steve shifts his weight, opens his mouth to answer, but Fury stops him with an upraised hand. He pushes his tablet aside and leans back in his chair to regard him. There’s something twice as unsettling when someone with only one eye starts such a close inspection. “Have you stopped to consider the trauma you put your ol’ pal through? He’s lame, he’s got a criminal record, and his last act on Earth was to make the brave decision to end his own suffering. Then you march in there and decide to take his life into your own hands just to clear your guilty conscience?”

Steve’s mouth drops. That thought had never occurred to him. Is he just being selfish…? He’s so tired that the director’s words make a terrifying kind of sense for about thirty seconds before he frowns. No. That’s _not_ what this is about. He has to find another way to convince Fury that doesn’t make it just look like Steve is trying to save his own cat.

“So the answer, Captain Rogers, is no.” Fury nods towards the door, and Steve salutes, because he can’t think of anything else to do and turns away. When he looks back at Fury’s desk, he finds the director already eyes down at work, sipping coffee from his mug. As far as the director’s concerned, Steve’s already left the room.

“He’d be an ideal candidate for SHIELD,” Steve blurts out.

“Excuse me?”

“SHIELD. Strategic Homeland Intervention—”

“I recall,” Fury sharply interrupts. Steve doubts it actually, but at least Fury puts his coffee down.

“It’s because of his criminal record that he’d be an ideal target for the Panther, right? Terrorist groups often work within an existing criminal element for funding, manpower and other resources. With whatever connections he has in the Bratva, he might be able to—”

“That’s enough,” Fury says, but without heat. He frowns thoughtfully, considering the option, then gives a cursory nod, apparently seeing the logic in it. “And you swear you’re not just saying this because you want to rescue the cat that saved your life?”

Steve hesitates for only a second, since he knows a test when he hears one. “Of course I want to rescue the cat that saved my life,” he admits, effortlessly, downplaying how much that part matters to him. “But it’s also the the right play here. Panther would trust him because of his history. You’d have his complete cooperation, because of me.”

Fury nods, this time with full blown approval. “I’ll put in the call to Coulson.” Steve sucks in a breath of air, but holds it when Fury trains his single eye back to his. “But remember, captain. You still have to convince the cat to work with us.”

Steve blows out his held breath and grins, genuinely hopeful for the first time in five years.

Halfway there, but closer than before.

 

* * *

 

More beautiful Snow Leopard Bucky (in comfy socks!) from [Dean Draws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/post/156242700465/snowleopardbucky-speed-sketch-commission-for)! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter wound up about three times longer than I thought it would, so I had to split it up! Sorry for the break! I'll get the next one posted ASAP since it's already finished :)


	4. Solving Zeno’s Paradox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:   
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]   
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)   
> POTUS: President of the United States

It takes the rest of the day for Steve to arrange the logistics with Director Coulson. He seems so impressed that Steve already found a candidate that he agrees easily. He even spares Steve any questions about General Rogers, even though Steve can tell he desperately wants to ask. The thought had occurred to him that if Coulson pushed back on his proposal he could offer to arrange for the two of them to have coffee together, or the blood of the innocent. Whatever it is his father subsumes to stay so fit and annoyingly robust, despite the decades of heavy drinking.

When Steve asks Coulson about coordinating their trip to the CFC, the director declines. With an infuriating subtle smile, he tells Steve there’d be time for that later and leaves it at that. Steve is too exhausted to properly read into the statement, then quickly puts it out of his mind. SHIELD is just a means to an end; he’ll worry about the particulars later.

Private Lorraine helps Steve organize the chaos of Bucky’s requisition paperwork and the rest of his licensing documents, then finally sends him home with a stack of color coded binders and firm “orders” to get some actual sleep. 

It's almost painful when he walks through his apartment’s front door. Somehow, leaving his office feels like even more of a betrayal than when he had left the CFC without Bucky’s license in hand. He finds an open bottle of Redbreast on his kitchen counter. All the beer bottles seem to have collectively gone rancid, so he has to open a few windows and dump them out. He corks the whiskey though; he’s sure he’ll need it later.

Steve practically collapses on his sofa after flinging his jacket over the armrest. His scuffed shoes had long since been kicked off by the door. He planned to review the status on the base housing he had lined up for his initiative at Fort McNair, but then wakes up with a start after a nightmare. In his dream he had missed his alarm and Bucky had been euthanized while he overslept. Shaking and nauseous, Steve takes a cold shower, puts on a fresh uniform and drives to the CFC. He waits in the parking lot, staring up at the Triskelion while it’s still dark, waiting for 0900 to roll around.

* * *

At 0901 he walks through the large, automatic front doors, heads immediately to the L&L desk, and is told to wait while the current receptionist tracks down Aaron. Less than forty eight hours ago, he had been in this same waiting room, bored to tears by a stack of paperwork and day dreaming about getting home early so he could get back to his bottle of Redbreast.

It all becomes real at once. 

Steve sits on a white leather sofa in the waiting area with a small  _ oomf.  _ Bucky is here. His loyal hunting cat is still alive, a cat that saved his life not just on Sakhalin but half a dozen other times on the mainland. The sniper in Moscow, the IED in Dzhaore, the ambush in Petsamo. After five years, he’s finally going to get him back.

All he has to do is convince him to leave. He’s had forty-eight hours and he’s still not sure what he’s going to say. 

Aaron shows up and takes him past reception to the main elevator that Steve had skipped last time. He cranes his neck to get a quick glimpse of the lounge floor but doesn’t spot the White Queen anywhere. Cats like that doesn’t stay unlicensed for long. He hopes whoever took out a second mortgage on their house to afford those fees could handle her.

Steve holds his breath as the elevator descends, unable to keep up with Aaron’s constant stream of chit chat. Since Steve could ‘count on him,’ Aaron figures that made them friends but Steve barely registers their conversation as he tries to focus on his objective. He doesn’t know what to expect when sees Bucky again. Will he still be coming down from his drugs? Will he recognize him? Even though Dr. Lukin had claimed Bucky would be capable of responding to questions, that doesn’t mean he’s fully recovered from whatever cocktail they pumped into him. Felines aren’t known to be the most sentimental people and it had been five years, after all.

Steve shivers when they step out on the Sub-01 floor. There’s a long hallway stretching in each direction, like a hotel, but the pale green linoleum floors and industrial overhead lighting makes it look more like a hospital.

“Alright,” Aaron takes a breath to get started. “This is the block with the pre-screened applicants for your program. The, er, special candidate you requested is on the end, in the last dormitory. We made sure to select the applicants based off of the number of years served, and prescreened for behavioral problems or terminal illness...”

Aaron’s voice drones on but Steve stops listening. By some miracle he had managed to keep the endgame in sight while being lead through the CFC so far, maintaining the front that he is just in the market for a good program candidate. Now, as he passes the other rooms and sees the ex-SCFs for the first time, his feet start to slow. 

Steve catches sight of the cat standing at attention in the doorway next to him, and stops. The cat’s glossy black ears are directed straight ahead, chin up, eyes forward, chest out. His tail is wrapped down his left leg, the tip curling slightly at his boot. He has a little scar across the bridge of his nose, and Steve wonders about it, wants to ask to see his military record, but squeezes his mouth shut so firmly that his jaw creaks. He nods at the cat, then moves on.

He continues down the hall, looking into each room, finding a cat proudly displayed in the doorway. There is a heavy plexi shield lowered into each door frame, locked of course. The open doors are just as much of an illusion as the word “dormitory” is for what is obviously a prison. The CFC had dressed all the candidates up like soldiers, just for him. 

Steve feels like a fraud. A window shopper at an overpriced department store, each window display intended for a much more generous customer.

All the felines are standing to attention, just like they had for him on Sakhalin, just like they had for other human COs. They likely had shared the same fear out on deployment, dreading the moment their units became redundant, sent home to a country they barely knew with skills that scared people and bodies the government won’t allow on the street. 

Forty eight hours ago, Steve had thought that all he had to do was close his eyes and point. Now, Steve finds himself aching for each and every one of these candidates, and decides to give them the dignity of looking them in the eye when he passes each one over. He feels that pain, he accepts his complicity in falsely raising their hopes, but doesn’t stop. 

Then, just like that, he’s looking into Bucky’s tiny room. 

There’s a bed bracketed against one wall, like the others, except this one has no mattress and a single, thin blanket draped over the entire frame to hide how empty it is. There’s an exposed, steel toilet in the back of the room, under a single, tiny window set high into the back wall. The relief that Bucky has had some real glimpse of the sky outside squeezes Steve’s heart. 

Unlike the others, Bucky isn’t standing to attention. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed, and stares at the blank wall in front of him. He’s also squeaky clean, skin pink and raw from being freshly scrubbed, ears and tail glossy and bright. Steve can smell the fur oil from where he’s standing. He wonders if Bucky put up a fight when they bathed him, or if he is so used to being handled he simply complied. Maybe he hadn’t even been awake.

Bucky has an oddly placid expression to his eyes, where he stares at nothing and doesn’t so much as flinch when Steve peers into the room. Steve frowns and turns to Aaron. “Why is he still wearing a muzzle?”

“Because he’s still dangerous!” Aaron pipes up, surprised by the question like it should have been obvious.

“How do I take it off?” Steve resists the urge to tap on the glass. Bucky isn’t a zoo animal. He doesn’t have to look at Steve if he isn’t ready to. Steve’s eyes almost hurt to look at him, and can’t seem to settle down on what part of Bucky to take in first. The gentle fold of his gray ears, the soft length of his dark hair, the full gray tail with its patchy black spots, hanging loosely off the edge of the bed beside him.

“Ungelded male cats are required by law to wear—”

“Aaron,” Steve says, but may as well have called him ‘son’ again from the way Aaron reacts to the tone. “All the other ex-SCFs are ungelded and none of them are muzzled. How do I take it off? Is that a J-lock muzzle? Some other commercial issue?” 

Aaron blinks stupidly before he gives up, and passes a small tool to Steve like a guilty child. Steve’s seen these before, little metal keys that look almost like bottle openers. The Army had a full stock of muzzles for the Howlie’s SCFs, but Steve doesn’t think they ever used them when they were deployed. His team was there for combat, and the soldiers needed their cat’s sharp teeth to be effective in the field.

No problem, he thinks. He’ll take it off himself. J-locks are easy to pop off when you’re not the one wearing the thing. Bucky is still staring at the wall, clearly not participating in their conversation. “Bucky?” 

No response. That’s okay, Steve had expected as much. Bucky had been so heavily drugged just two days earlier that he hadn’t even recognized him so Steve is prepared for a sluggish reaction. “Bucky can you hear me?” Steve asks, stepping right up to the plexi. His breath fogs against the clear, smooth surface of it.

No response.

“Open this door,” Steve orders. 

“Oh, man...” Aaron groans, but has apparently learned not to argue. He steps up to the door, security badge extended on a cable from his belt loop, and a green light appears at the frame. Aaron pushes the light like a button, and the plexi slides away. 

The change in air pressure catches Bucky’s attention. He looks up from his seat, and Steve offers him a gentle smile. The words are hard to get out, but he manages. “Hey, Buck. Do you remember me?”

Bucky’s gaze doesn’t even meet Steve’s own before his eyes drop, and he turns back to face the wall again.

So  _ fucking  _ close! 

Steve takes a single step into the room, and he sees Bucky’s tail pull away and resettle on his opposite side, trailing all the way to the floor. That’s when Steve sees Bucky isn’t wearing any boots. Instead he has thick socks covering his feet.

It’s strange to see something so innocent and so vulnerable, and Steve thinks it would have been more natural to see Bucky barefoot. Had his feet been cold? Or did his boots just get taken away? He’s not dressed up in the fake military fatigues like the others. His white pants and undershirt are clean and soft. He looks like he belongs in some kind of hospital, a convalescent ward for long term recovery and care. 

That thought makes Steve look over his shoulder and he catches sight of Aaron in the doorway. He’s watching expectantly, thick arms crossed against his broad chest, likely there to witness if Bucky actually agrees to go with Steve or return to the Red Room. So much for being friends, Aaron.

“Bucky, can you hear me? It’s okay if you don’t know me, but I need to know if you can understand what I’m telling you.” 

Bucky finally looks back up, and his gaze locks into place somewhere over Steve’s shoulder. He still won’t look him in the eye, but he understands. 

“That’s better,” Steve sighs. “I’m going to take your muzzle off so we can have a proper conversation. Is that okay?”

Bucky’s eyes drop down to Steve’s hand, and he catches sight of the key for the hard, black shell that wraps around his nose and mouth. Steve opens his hand flat to give him a better look. “See? That’s all I’m going to do, and then I’m going to step back again. Is that okay?” 

Bucky still doesn’t react. Instead he trains his gaze back to the wall. Those piercing eyes are a bit unsettling as they continue to stare, unblinking. 

Steve takes another step forward, then another. He tries to keep an eye on Bucky’s ears—still as little tomb stones—and his tail, which loosely hangs to the floor, looking for any possible signs that Bucky might be agitated or scared.

Bucky’s eyes dart over Steve’s shoulder again, at Aaron.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Steve says, freezing. “That’s Aaron. He’s just doing his job from out there. He won’t come in here. Too small for three big guys like us. I’m going to unlock the muzzle now. Don’t, um… Don’t bite me. Please.”

Steve reaches up with one hand, and holds his breath. Bucky’s hair is longer than it had been in the military, and it tickles the top of his hand as he feels the back of the muzzle. It’s somewhat awkward to have his hands wrapped around Bucky’s head for even a few seconds, while he tries not to crowd the cat with his bulk. Finally, he finds the catch at the base of Bucky’s skull and hooks the small tool into it.

“There you go,” Steve says, twists his wrist, and the muzzle pops off with a gentle click. Bucky gasps, catches the muzzle in his one hand where it falls into his lap. He stares at it for a moment, like he’s confused as to how it got there, then puts it aside and looks up at Steve. His lips are dry and slightly parted, pink tongue lying flat behind his sharp teeth, and Steve can tell he’s using his mouth to fully scent the air. It’s probably the first time he’s been in this floor without the muzzle on.

Steve swallows hard when he finally sees the stump. He had found out that Bucky lost his arm about a year after the Zola mission. Steve had never managed to discover exactly how it happened, or how much of the arm was severed. 

Still, in his mind’s eye he always pictures Bucky with two arms. Seeing him now, missing such a huge part of himself, is a shock. Bucky has a tiny bit of his left shoulder remaining. An angry field of scars, like an impact crater on the surface of planet, spreads out towards his collarbone and clavicle. It looks red and painful, like it’s constantly inflamed.

“Oh, Bucky,” he breathes out, and tears his eyes away from the hideous scar just in time to see the blue of Bucky’s eyes vanish into black pools. “Bucky?” 

Bucky quickly faces the wall again and his chest heaves, just once before he holds it, in the same way someone might try to hide their terrified breathing. His ears turn outward, so he can keep one aimed at Steve even as he pointedly does not look at him. 

“Buck?” Steve takes a step forward and Bucky flinches away. He quickly looks up again, over Steve’s shoulder, a desperation crossing his features. Steve turns to look at Aaron and sees him giving some kind of stern signal to Bucky, a look that told him to behave. “Aaron, would you mind giving us a minute alone?” 

Aaron opens his mouth to argue and Steve gives him a disapproving shake of his head. Aaron drops his arms and points at Bucky. “You behave. Don’t attack the captain,” Aaron demands, like he’s scolding a child, before he turns away and steps out of sight. He’s probably waiting just around the corner, but at least now he isn’t giving Bucky mixed signals.

“Alright, just the two of us,” Steve says. Bucky has gone back to staring at the wall, but he’s gripping the edge of the bedframe in his one hand. “I came to offer you a way out of here. I’ve made a program for SCFs that will help them adapt when they come out of the military. I need a model candidate to go through the program. We’ve got barracks set up, meal plans, medical services, training. I want you to help me promote the program. You’ll be helping other cats— other felines, who don’t really have anywhere else to go. In a way, you’ll be a leader again, like you were on— well, like back in the Army. I’ve even got a super high tech prosthetic arm waiting for you, if you decide to help me. You won’t be assigned to a stranger either, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

Steve trails off, not sure what else to say. So far Bucky hasn’t reacted to any of it. Steve had expected at least a little interest, especially once he explained the program's benefits for the other cats or the prosthetic arm. Doesn’t Bucky want to get out of this shit hole? Fury’s words rattle around in his head, trying to convince him that the elective euthanasia program was something Bucky had bravely chosen for himself.

“Bucky, they won’t let me take you out of here unless you agree,” Steve explains gently, trying not to sound like he’s pressuring Bucky into it, or ordering him to come along. “They said that you… That you volunteered for the Red Room?” 

No response. 

People less experienced with humanoid felines might think he is completely ignoring him, or perhaps can’t hear what he’s saying, but Steve can read the twitch at the tip of Bucky’s tail where it brushes the floor, nervously ticking while his ears stay trained on Steve. For whatever reason, Bucky is scared of him and doesn’t trust what he’s saying. Steve had expected it to be enough that it was him saying it, that their bond would bring Bucky around and he’d agree to go with him, without having to sell it. He hadn’t been prepared to be wrong about that.

Really, this isn’t going the way he thought it would at all.

Steve drops down to a crouch, the motion enough to startle a slight movement out of Bucky but not much more. He extends one hand up to him, hoping Bucky recognizes the gesture. Five years ago, across thousands of miles, Bucky had pressed the cold tip of his nose into Steve’s hand and licked his palm. After that subtle show of trust, Steve had stroked Bucky’s delicate ears, soothing the big cat as he purred in his lap, sharing heat in the abysmal, cold hell they had been trapped in. 

“I’ve been looking for you for years,” Steve finally admits, his voice just above a whisper as he reaches his hand closer. “Please let me take you out of here.”

Bucky stiffly extends his face forward, towards Steve’s hand, and Steve doesn’t flinch. Bucky’s barbed tongue slips out between two dry, pink lips and tastes the very tip of Steve’s finger. His left ear flicks. “If it isn’t the Star Spangled Man With a Plan,” Bucky says, his voice dry and cracking from disuse. “You shouldn't have come here.”

Bucky opens his mouth as if he wants to say more but then his eyes unfocus and slide away from Steve’s face. He’s back to the empty stare and neutral expression while his tail nervously ticks again.

Halfway there, only to find himself halfway there again. Steve is literally close enough to reach out and touch him, but Bucky is still so far out of his grasp that the paradox continues.

Steve wipes a defeated hand down his face. “Oh, Buck. How do I reach you?” This timid, skittish creature in front of him, disabled and scarred, still looks just like his Bucky, but he had never known Bucky to be afraid of anything, let alone afraid of Steve. But no, that’s not quite true. Bucky had been scared of what they found in that hole. Something that barely touches the edges of Steve’s memory. Something he refuses to think of, every time he steps on an elevator. “What the fuck happened in that hole? What the fuck happened on Sakhalin…” 

“Captain Rogers,” Aaron says, and Steve turns back around to see him standing in the doorway again. “If he doesn’t want to go with you he doesn’t have to. Cats have a right to—”

“What did you see in the elevator?” Bucky croaks out.

Steve feels like he had been doused with an ice cold bucket of water when he hears the question. Bucky’s ears flatten and he inches away when Steve turns sharply back around; he’s still scared but now he’s looking Steve right in the eyes.

“What did you say?” Steve asks, because he half expects he was hallucinating. How could Bucky possibly know?

“On Sakhalin,” Bucky practically whispers. His eyes keep darting up to Aaron and back down to Steve, unsure which one he is supposed to be the most submissive to. He’s taking a chance, betting on Steve.

“I don’t know what I saw,” Steve flatly states, because that’s what he always says when people ask. He knows there’s something wrong with his memory; disjointed gaps and pieces that don’t line up along the edges. As far as he knows, Captain Ward and his own hunting cat took the elevator up to the surface and then Steve and Bucky had been caught in a booby trap by Arnim Zola. That’s what Captain Ward’s official report says, anyway. That’s what Steve’s official report says as well, after he had been told. 

The only thing that says otherwise is Steve’s dreams, the strange flashbacks that make no sense, that leave him confused and shaking. Bucky’s tail rises then falls back down with a thump, and his face goes tight, like he’s resisting a frown while he challenges Steve’s claim with his relentless gaze. Bucky is testing him. Steve breathes out the next words as quietly as possible, so that Aaron can’t hear, but he knows Bucky can easily pick out the words with his magnificent ears. 

“I saw a nightmare.”

Bucky’s gaze holds Steve’s for a single heartbeat of silence. “I’ll go with you,” Bucky says. “Captain Rogers. I’ll be your test candidate for your program.”

Steve makes a small sound, shock and surprise and barely contained joy. He clamps one hand over his mouth, stifles it before it can escape, then stands. “Good,” he says with an official nod. “Good,” he says again, because now he’s having a hard time catching his breath and doesn’t know what else to say.

Keep it together. Almost there. What’s next? “Aaron, you heard him, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Aaron complies. He’s smiling, but not because he’s actually happy that Bucky has just been rescued from certain death. Aaron is just glad it’s all over. Thanks Aaron.

Bucky eases himself up from the bed, stands on the cool linoleum floor in his sock feet, and straightens his back. It’s strange seeing someone with only one arm snap such a tidy salute, like a slightly broken zipper that still manages to close despite its missing teeth. 

Still, Bucky’s eyes are sharp; Steve knows he means it when he recites, “Reporting for duty, Captain Rogers.”

Steve returns the salute.

No more half-distances, no more close calls. Bucky is coming home.

 

* * *

 

Beautiful snow Leopard Bucky by [KotsuKotsu](http://kotsukotsu.tumblr.com/post/156367373576/a-commission-i-did-for-the-talented-fic-writer) (click for full size!) 

[ ](http://68.media.tumblr.com/74e537dd09d3da409750ff77ebfe22a0/tumblr_okbsp94wu51sfyt94o1_1280.jpg)

 


	5. Five Years Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

All Bucky thinks about is Sakhalin.

Not just having a life or a purpose or his left arm, but he thinks about his last mission in particular.

About Arnim Zola. About the _thing_ that came out of his face. About the poison it delivered into Captain Rogers. The oily tang that he tasted from deep inside the wound on the captain’s thigh. Bucky also thinks about surviving in the darkness underground, his human’s drifting consciousness and suffering a constant worry.

Five years ago, when he woke up in the cat health station, Brock had been there waiting for him. He told him quietly, in a whisper so the humans couldn't hear, what happened in the elevator. He also told him that none of the humans believed him, even Captain Ward who was _there,_ and if Bucky knew what was good for him he wouldn't talk about it.

“They’re blind,” Brock had ominously said, glancing nervously around. “They can't fucking see anything. Captain Ward isn't even Captain Ward anymore.” Then Brock pressed his cold face into the side of Bucky's neck and licked Bucky's scruff until he purred, incapable of resisting the compulsion after all the pain and exhaustion and drugs. Brock hadn’t seem to mind when a small hitching noise starts up in Bucky’s chest, or when that turns into a helpless mewl of fright when the helplessness began to overwhelm him.

Eventually, the lab tech caught them and chased Brock off.

Bucky never understood why Brock had been so gentle. Probably because Brock was scared too. Probably because after seeing those wounds, he knew Bucky was going to die. That had been the last time Bucky ever saw him. That had been the last time Bucky ever saw _any_ of them.

That is until everything caught up with him at once, and he had been ready to die, and Captain Rogers emerged from nowhere. Then he gets scooped up, scrubbed raw, and placed into this weird, sterile dormitory.

Rogers talks too much about all these things he's going to do for him. He doesn't seem to know that he carries the stink of Arnim Zola. Just a tiny hint of it, but that is all Bucky needs to remember the overwhelming sense of dread, the pain and the fear.

Rogers might not even be Rogers anymore after he had been poisoned, like Captain Ward.

All Bucky can do is listen as Rogers describes his cute little program for worthless cats. Bucky tries to show this human who looks and smells and acts like Captain Rogers that he’s being respectful and attentive, while pretending his hardest that he isn't always terrified, thinking about Sakhalin.

Then he tastes the salty familiarity on the Captain's fingertips and he remembers the easy smiles and awkward attempts at respect. He remembers Rogers referring to him and Brock as ‘sergeant,’ and returning his salute, even when he never had to. He remembers hearing him cheer from the sidelines when they played baseball on the parade ground.

The memories are distant, like a dream, but enough to make Bucky ache for that long lost connection. Maybe he had actually managed to extract enough poison from the captain before the corruption could set in. Maybe Captain Rogers really is Captain Rogers, and they have finally found each other again after Bucky had abandoned him in the hole. After everything that’s happened, it seems foolish to hope.

“If it isn’t the Star Spangled Man With a Plan.” It slips out before he can stop it, and he regrets it immediately after the captain’s eyes go wide with surprise. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he backtracks, trying to think of a way to push him away without the CFC tech punishing him again. Apparently he had tried to bite Rogers earlier. Bucky doesn't remember.

When Captain Rogers is on the verge of finally giving up, he utters a question about Sakhalin to no one in particular. His shoulders are bent, his eyes downcast, and his hands dropped in exhaustion. He looks confused, and even a little afraid. Free from his muzzle, Bucky can smell his desperation.

When Captain Rogers admits he had seen that nightmare in the elevator, Bucky knows he means Zola, changing into an actual monster right before their eyes. When Captain Rogers admits he had seen that nightmare, Bucky knows it’s really him.

After five years of struggle and indifference, Bucky suddenly decides he wants to know what the fuck happened after Sakhalin. After five years of hell, he actually wants to find out what happens next.

* * *

Bucky seems to power down after he agrees to go along with Steve’s program, like he used up all his energy to come to terms with his options and make the decision. He follows closely behind Steve, even while he stares listlessly into the middle distance as they make their way out of the Sub-01 dormitories. He pauses only briefly at the threshold of the elevator, giving Steve a furtive glimpse before stepping aboard. Steve wonders if Bucky has the same crippling fear of riding them, or if he had just been looking to his new keeper for permission.

Since Steve and Private Lorraine had prepared all the necessary paperwork in advance, and with Director Fury’s express orders, getting Bucky released moves fairly quickly. Aaron gives Steve a glossy shopping bag, completing his luxury department store purchase, it seems. Inside is a keeper's guide, a muzzle with several keys, and a vacuum sealed plastic bag that holds what’s left of Bucky’s possessions. Steve sees the disposal date on the hazardous waste label is marked for that day. He demands they bring Bucky a pair of shoes, and he doesn’t argue when they bring an ill fitting pair of boots, even when he notices that had clearly belonged to someone else at one point.

The last step is registering Bucky’s license to the DOD, and scanning the special tag that Steve hands over, which he had custom made as part of his new initiative. It’s shaped like a coin, with red and blue stripes circling a white, central star. Steve hopes that one day these tags will be seen as a badge of honor for ex-SCFs, a proud display of their prior service to the safety and security of the United States.

For now it looks a little flashy. Maybe he shouldn’t have ordered bright red collars to go with them. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. As soon as it rests against his throat his shoulders jump with a short gasp and he snatches the tag with his right hand. All Steve can do is nod when he gives him a look like he isn’t sure what it’s doing there, on his own neck. “All yours,” Steve says softly and tries to smile, but he doesn’t know what to make of Bucky’s reaction.

Steve gives Aaron a lazy salute when they leave through the lounge, just to humor him. The large man practically blushes, and winds up awkwardly bowing because he doesn’t know how to respectfully return the gesture. They make it nearly all the way past the waiting area, before Aaron comes trotting up behind them and makes Steve put the muzzle back on Bucky before they leave the building.

“Sorry, sir,” Aaron says, so embarrassed that he’s gone red in the face. “That’s the law.”

Bucky still doesn’t seem to mind. Within moments they are out of the building and walking through the parking lot. Bucky slows down as they make their way through the first row of parked cars, and Steve pushes him forward with a hand on the small of his back.

“Don’t look back,” he warns, and Bucky picks up the pace. He knows how he feels, escaping the Triskelion two days prior, and he doesn’t want Bucky experiencing that same panic he had when he looked up at that horrible place. The feeling chases him all the way through the parking lot that someone would chase them down, would insist that something had gone wrong with the paperwork or the laws or the license and Bucky would have to go back.

Steve opens his driver’s side door, buckles Bucky in without asking, and trots around to the driver’s side, the entire time forcing his mind to go blank. Then he’s pulling out of the parking lot, driving South on 7th Street towards Fort McNair. He takes his own advice and doesn’t look back either. Bucky stays silent beside him, and doesn’t move.

A gas station on the corner catches Steve’s eye, and he doesn’t realize why he’s pulled into it until he parks squarely into one of the spots by the convenience mart and nearly comes undone. He’s so angry he can’t even breathe, he’s so relieved he wants to cry. He looks over to Bucky who still keeps his eyes unfocused, somewhere out the window and has to push his forehead into the steering wheel.

“Bucky,” he starts. “Are you okay?” He laughs. What a ridiculous question. “I can’t even begin to understand what you’ve been through,” he says, starting over. “I have so many questions. I have so much I want to tell you. I have so much to apologize for.” Steve is staring at the Chevy logo in the middle of his steering wheel, gripping it so hard the leather creaks under his hands, and doesn’t see if Bucky is looking at him. “I can’t believe I found you.”

Steve looks up and Bucky is watching him, his bright blue eyes practically glowing over the dark muzzle. Steve frowns, reaches into the back seat and dumps the care package into his lap. “Come here,” he says. Bucky flinches, but stiffly lowers his head when he realizes Steve is reaching up to unlock the muzzle.

The new lock clicks open easily, but instead of letting it fall Steve pulls it off himself, and gets out of the car. He shoves the muzzle into the filthy, cement block trashcan by the convenience mart’s entrance, then gets back into the car and glares back down at the steering wheel.

“You’re never wearing that again,” Steve says. “Got it?”

Bucky nods once. Got it.

Throwing away the muzzle makes such a difference that Steve is suddenly able to start up the car and get back on the road feeling relatively in control. There had been something wrapped around his chest, slowly squeezing, preventing him from taking in a full breath. Maybe catching how Bucky seemed to struggle with every breath while he wore the thing was subconsciously suffocating Steve as well.

As he makes his way towards Fort McNair he sneaks a few looks over at his sullen passenger. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he can’t help himself and it’s safer than pinching himself to check if he’s dreaming while he needs to pay attention to driving. Bucky doesn’t look back at him, but he seems to be more relaxed now that he’s free of the muzzle. Steve even catches how he seems to be watching DC roll by out the passenger side window. Definitely an improvement.

The guard at the South gate at Fort McNair salutes him, welcomes him on base, and Steve has to check a map on his phone several times before he finds the barracks for his SCF program. It had been earmarked as temporary housing for traveling, unmarried officers. Small but modern suites with kitchenettes and full sized bathrooms. Not quite an apartment, but enough for someone to live a relatively independent life in the controlled environment of the base. Regulations passed during construction extended the acceptable distance to munitions bunkers from one hundred meters to one hundred and twenty five, and all of a sudden they legally couldn’t use the housing for human personnel. Since cats are technically classified as equipment, the unfinished barracks were perfect for Steve’s initiative. Apparently construction had already been completed, the units move in ready other than missing carpets and furniture.

When Steve pulls up to the proper base address, he finds Private Lorraine leaning against her car, parked at the curb in front of a row of bungalows. Not a good sign.

“Is— is this him, sir?” Lorraine asks, and Steve has to do a double take when he follows her gaze. He figures at first that Bucky must be quite a surprise to see for someone who isn’t used to hunting cats. In his mind’s eye, Bucky is still huge, thickly muscled and sharp eyed, but when he looks back he sees him hunched timidly in his seat, holding himself across the middle with his one arm, thin and listless and a little scared.

“Yes,” he says, trying to not feel the pain in his chest. “He’s a little skittish at the moment,” Steve says with an wince. “What’s the situation with our housing?”

“Bad,” she says, and motions towards the rows of two storey wooden buildings. “The housing authority failed to mention the missing windows.”

“You’re kidding,” Steve starts. “How many of them?”

“All of them, sir.” Lorraine is a little red, and has to clench her teeth. If there’s one thing she hates about the military is bureaucratic inefficiency. “They were supposedly ‘move in ready’ according to the last status update on the build, but apparently a different department started ‘requisitioning’ materials for an office remodel on the other end of the base. They stole our windows, sir. The rain has been getting in all year.” Lorraine shakes her head, and her shoulders drop incrementally. “It’s a mess. We can’t put anyone in these units until the inspectors have checked for mold and structural water damage. I mean, _legally_ we could, but...”

“Understood, private,” Steve says with an irritated huff and glares out at the buildings, betrayed. The buildings are red, with exposed walkways on the top floor painted in white. They would could actually be pretty idyllic, if it weren’t for the thick plastic sheets that drift in and out of the empty window frames, waving on the light breeze.

Each building has twelve units, six on top and six below, and a total of ten buildings lined up in two tidy rows with a grassy walkway between them. It was a beautiful location to house felines, and by putting two in each unit Steve had been planning to relocate two hundred and forty cats here by the end of the year. “Shit.”

“I can pulse Fort McNair’s quartermaster to see if we can’t put him up with their active feline regiment.” Lorraine suggests, and Steve shakes his head.

“An established pack of cats will tear him to pieces,” he says thoughtfully, before he shrugs. “I’ll just bring him to my place for now. His license is requisitioned out under my name anyway.”  Really, it’s stupid he hadn’t just done that in the first place. Bucky is in no condition to be left by himself in base housing. “Maybe you can find out what the hell happened to our windows. Hopefully we can at get a couple back and work on getting at least one unit livable.” Steve looks back to Bucky. “Besides, it might help him adjust if he’s around a familiar face.”

“Yes, sir.” Private Lorraine answers, following Steve’s line of sight back to the car where Bucky continues to wait, quiet and unmoving. She doesn’t look back at Steve when she adds, “It might help you both.”

Steve isn’t sure what to say to that so he coughs, takes the duffel she had prepared for Bucky’s room, and salutes her goodbye. When he climbs back into his car Bucky is staring at him, but doesn’t look alarmed. His ears are straight up, tail relaxed in his lap. He probably heard every word between them. Steve would have to get used to that.

“Okay, pal,” he starts. “New plan. You’re coming home with me.”

* * *

When Captain Rogers opens the front door of his own apartment, Bucky takes in a deep, open mouthed breath. He can smell cleaning solution. Cotton sheets, rarely slept on. Three dead potted plants. A laundry hamper. Boxes and boxes of pasta in the pantry. Rancid beer. It’s nicer than any home he’s ever been in since before he was drafted.

Bucky sneezes from the cleaner smell which startles Steve around. “You okay?” He asks.

It’s a question Bucky has heard from him at least seventeen times that day. Just like those previous seventeen times, he isn’t sure what the answer should be so he gives none. Eventually Rogers gets the hint and moves on without asking anything else. He apologizes for “the mess” while gathering up rumpled pieces of spare uniforms from just about all the furniture in the living room. Rogers leaves his service cap next to an identical one on a side table by the front door with a dish of keys and loose change.

He seems a bit more chaotic than Bucky remembers— disorganized and not wholly confident. It’s strange, just like it’s strange to see the inside of the captain’s domestic life. Bucky had never even seen the inside of the officer’s quarters on Sakhalin. How should he act in a human’s home? Karpov’s feral tenement in New York had hardly prepared him to be in an officer’s apartment. Bucky touches his license again, trying to figure it out. It’s a domestic tag for sure. So Captain Rogers is his keeper? Or is Bucky back in the Army? If he is in the Army what the fuck is he doing here?

Bucky wiggles his toes inside his badly fitting boots and continues to stand just inside the door as Rogers walks back and forth to his garbage can after finding some of the reeking beer bottles behind his sofa. Bucky decides to await orders, rather than make any decisions. Army SCF or domestically kept, decisions aren’t something cats should be making for themselves.

At least whatever had been clinging to Rogers that reminded Bucky of Arnim Zola doesn’t seem to permeate the Captain’s home. It must have come from someone Rogers interacted with, a firm handshake or a pat on the shoulder. That female human at Fort McNair perhaps, but Bucky doubts it.

“What are you doing there?” Rogers asks, after he’s satisfied with his tidying up and finds that Bucky hasn’t moved from the doorway. Bucky swallows, doesn’t know how to answer that question either. “Do you want to sit?”

Oh fucking shit, he can’t do this. Bucky quickly locates the nearest window, then peers down the captain’s dark hallway to see if there might be a back door to his apartment. If Bucky runs he’ll have to ditch his new license immediately. Back at the CFC he had watched the guard show Rogers how to pair his phone to the RFID inside it. The captain can track him down as long as he’s wearing it. Bucky considers himself lucky that he didn’t wind up with another implant, like in the military. Lost along with his left arm, of course.

“Hey, hey,” Rogers starts, apparently picking up on Bucky’s frazzled nerves. He’s unbuttoned his jacket and his necktie is loose. He clearly doesn’t have any weapons on him, but he’s a human officer in the United States Army which means he’s just as dangerous to Bucky as he decides to be. Bucky tries to square his shoulders, his body recalling what it feels like to stand to attention, but he’s distracted by these thoughts, and when he shifts his weight finds himself pacing back and forth. “Bucky,” the captain says. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be scared. You’re going to be fine, I promise.”

Bucky doesn’t believe him, not really. Maybe Rogers wants to help—he always wanted to help back on Sakhalin—but the captain’s help wound up making things worse, almost every time. Bucky feels his hackles rise as Rogers approaches, and holds his breath when his back hits the locked front door.

What does he want from him? What does he expect? Why did he bring him here?

“Buck? Are you reading me, soldier?”

 _They’re blind,_ Brock had said. _Captain Ward isn’t even Captain Ward anymore._

Bucky panics.

* * *

[Sulasaferoom ](http://sulasaferoom.tumblr.com/post/156565787886/a-quick-catbucky-sketch-for-resinonao3-and-her)sketched this beautiful, moody snow leopard Bucky! 


	6. Feral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagging Note:  
> I added a tag on this fic for alcoholism, because as much as Steve thinks he's so different from his father, he's definitely got a problem.
> 
> Glossary:  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

At the start of the week, Steve’s plans for that Saturday had consisted of drinking, doing laundry, and avoiding phone calls from his mom. That list hadn’t included becoming the temporary keeper for a traumatized, disabled hunting cat, or bringing one into his disaster of an apartment. Steve had slept maybe three hours in the past forty-eight, putting together the perfect plan for extracting Bucky from the waking nightmare of the Red Room. As diligent as Steve can be laying the groundwork for a flawlessly executed mission, he has never been the best at the debrief portion.

That part of the operation goes south almost immediately. He closes his front door, locks it—force of habit—and leaves Bucky by himself in order to collect his mess from the living room. He just wants to make enough space for them to have a seat, and maybe even get a chance to talk. When he turns back the cat is clearly anxious, eyes darting to all the corners of the small apartment, looking for another way out.

Steve shouldn’t have approached him. He realizes now that, like an idiot, he had actually cornered Bucky against the locked front door. Steve is probably lucky the cat tried to bolt, rather than attack him like he had in the Red Room. Thinking that, it occurs to Steve that maybe ditching the muzzle hadn’t been an entirely smart choice, even if it had been the right one.

Once Bucky gives up tearing through the two bedroom apartment he crashes into the bathroom and Steve slams the door behind him, trapping him inside. There’s not much for the cat to break in there, and no windows big enough to fit through. A not insignificant voice inside of Steve is pretty damn disappointed that they didn’t last five minutes before Bucky wound up locked in another cage, but Steve needs time to think and Bucky clearly needs some space.

It’s for the best, Steve tells himself when he backs away from the bathroom door. They’re just at a stalemate for the moment. Halfway there, yet again.

Bucky hadn’t even planned on being alive at this point, let alone brought into his old SO’s home full of its strange smells and unknown boundaries. Steve really should have taken the time in the car to explain things better, to use the shocked silence of their situation to his advantage and go over Bucky’s new role with the JCS. Steve tosses his jacket over the back of the couch and finds himself mulling over such a pathetic mishandling of his old partner. He could have at least tried to tell Bucky he doesn’t have to be afraid anymore.

When Steve hears a crash from the bathroom he sits up suddenly, knocking a throw pillow to the floor and blinks owlishly into the darkness, confused. It takes a few moments for Steve to put together that he had fallen asleep. Bucky probably just knocked down the shower curtain tension rod while trying to reach the tiny window above the tub. What time is it? It’s pitch dark outside but the cat clearly hadn’t fallen asleep yet.

 _You’re an idiot, Rogers,_ Steve thinks, grabbing his phone off the coffee table. _Humanoid felines are nocturnal._

“Shit,” Steve groans, and tries to melt further into the couch when he sees the time. It’s two in the morning on Saturday, and Bucky clearly isn’t planning on emerging any time soon. Steve doesn’t dare relocate to his bedroom since he wants to keep himself between Bucky and the front door.

Why had he thought it was such a great idea to bring Bucky home again? He wonders if the damn keeper’s guide from the CFC would have been any use at all in this situation. Not that it matters, since he had left it in the car. If he went down to get it he’d be leaving his front door unguarded and he’d have to explain to Fury how this cat he had guaranteed would work with them was able to ditch Steve like some hapless parent unable to keep a teenager from breaking curfew.

“Shit _again.”_ Steve yawns, and flips through his texts. Natasha had pulsed him just after 2200, asking him how things were going. Now Steve texts her back, _Somehow I think you know how. I might need some backup later today, if you’re free._

 _No can do, Rogers,_ comes her immediate reply. Why is she even awake at two in the morning? _Not in the right time zone._

Well. That answers that. Not a friend, Steve crankily reminds himself.

Steve inelegantly rolls off the couch, then lumbers into the kitchen with a stiff neck, thinking he really could use a shower right about now. He flips on the under cabinet lighting, relying as usual on the glittering DC cityscape outside to provide the rest of the light he needs to maneuver his apartment. It’s actually easier than he’s used to, since most of the bottles are gone and his random, discarded uniform pieces are piled up on the side table next to the easy chair. Steve leaves his phone on the counter and opens his fridge, feeling his stomach crawl around inside him like a dying thing, looking for scraps. Aside from all the beer, he has half a lemon, condiments, a package of stale tortillas, hot dogs he had been too scared to touch weeks ago, and a small container of cherry tomatoes that look like severed toes.

On top of bringing home a traumatized, disabled hunting cat, Steve apparently hadn’t planned on either of them eating this weekend either. “You’re really nailing this man-with-a-plan thing, Rogers.”

He plucks the Redbreast off the counter on his way out of the kitchen, twists the cork out of the bottle’s neck with his teeth, then tucks himself back into the couch so he can thumb through GrubHub. It takes a few extra minutes to find a place that delivers at two thirty in the morning, but eventually he settles on two orders of something simple and hot. Steve considers the bottle in his hand after he pays for the meals and frowns. Cats can eat asparagus right?

Google says yes. Okay, then.

Steve takes a third or fourth or whatever number swig he’s on of whiskey, then leans back into his stack of pillows without bothering to shove his jacket aside. He can literally feel the JCS pin poking him under his left shoulder blade. “Hooray for metaphors,” he mumbles around the mouth of the whiskey bottle.

He’s not sure if he managed to doze off but a knock on the door startles him and he has to frown into the darkness for a beat before he remembers he ordered food. He glares at the nearly empty whiskey bottle sitting on the coffee table, as if it were to blame for the terrible decisions he’s made that night. Week. Month.

Fuck, the last five years.

Steve hauls himself up, opens the door without bothering to check who it is—probably stupid—and gives a handful of dollars in tips to the GrubHub guy in exchange for a plastic bag with a stack of takeout containers inside. He leaves one container on the counter before he heads down the hall to the bathroom, but aborts halfway there. Is he really just going to deliver a box of food to this poor cat and expect him to eat on the bathroom floor? Steve tries to clear his mind of the liquor soaked logic. “Okay, new plan,” he whispers to himself and heads back into the kitchen.

Steve does his best to plate the lemon chicken, asparagus fried rice, and caprese salad as elegantly as possible on an actual plate. He adds a real fabric napkin, cutlery, a tall glass of water and a small whiskey tumbler filled with milk to the tray and heads into the hall. He hopes Bucky doesn’t think he’s being a smartass about the milk, but it’s literally the only beverage in his house that isn’t poisonous to cats. Steve stops halfway again, looks down at the whole chicken breast, then goes back at the kitchen one more time to cut it into small, easy bites. He leaves the knife on the counter when he brings it back to the bathroom.

“Bucky?” Steve says quietly into the closed door. It isn’t locked, as far as he knows. “Buck, you awake? I brought some dinner. You must be starving. I’m just going to open the door and leave it for you, if that’s okay.” Steve waits a few beats but hears nothing, so he takes in a breath and pushes the door handle with his hip.

With its one, tiny window and almost no direct light from the hallway, Steve is suddenly reminded how fucking dark his bathroom gets. He peers into the shadows but has no idea where Bucky might be. All he can make out is the dark mess of his shower curtain, sprawled out across the bathroom floor. “I’m sorry I have to turn turn the light on, pal.”

Steve maneuvers the tray carefully when he flicks the switch with his elbow, then lets his mouth drop when he sees the calamity inside. Aside from the shower curtain rod— which looks like it took off some of the paint on its way down— Bucky had managed to knock over a wire mesh cart that holds basic toiletries, and the contents of the drawers are just about everywhere. Why does he even own so many bottles of _conditioner?_

Steve shuts his mouth and can practically feel himself grimace, forcing himself not to remark on it. He knew to expect the mess, and the last thing Bucky needs is to feel like he might get punished. What Steve hadn’t expected is finally finding Bucky, folded over into a tight whorl in the tiny space between the tub and the toilet. His tail is fluffed up to about twice its normal size, wrapped around him with the black tip hiding his face. Bucky’s clutches the top of his own head, ears flattened against the curve of his skull, like he’s trying to protect himself from something dangerous above him.

His whole body trembles so badly that Steve can hear his license jingling against the tile floor.

“Oh, _Bucky,”_ Steve breathes out, but too quietly to be meant for anyone but himself. He has no idea how long Bucky has been huddled in there. Hours, maybe.

Steve sets the tray down near the door, clears away some of the mess without getting near the terrified cat, then yanks one of his towels off the rack. He lets the corners of it fall close to Bucky’s hiding spot, easily within reach, then straightens it as best he can before setting the tray firmly in the center of it. “This is for you, if you want it. If you don’t want to come out I’m not going to force you. No one is going to force you to do anything you don’t want to again, okay? I’m not too crazy about you eating on the floor, so I’m going to eat on the floor too. Right outside this door, so you can have some space to make the decision on your own. I’d like for you to eat though. I need to know how many stars to leave ‘Papa’s Chicken Palace’.”

Steve retreats after that, making sure to hit the switch on his way out. Bucky has never needed much light, and probably wants to be able to inspect the food without worrying that Steve is watching him. Steve leaves the bathroom door cracked about four inches, then retrieves his takeout container and collects one more bag from the living room before he heads back. He pauses at the door again, but doesn’t look inside, just in case. Instead he sets his back to the wall, slides to the floor and pops open the plastic container.

“Smells pretty good, doesn’t it?” He casually asks the air around him. “I actually had to look up if it was safe for felines to eat asparagus. Officers have to do a training module for operating a feline unit. Did you know that? I went through three weeks at Fort Drum. I learned all about commands and operations for feline squads, but not a damn thing about what you could and couldn’t eat. Guess that’s why you guys had your own chow hall, come to think of it. Mm, not too bad though, is it? Better than an MRE at least. Remember when we shared that one outside of Odessa? I couldn’t believe how lucky I was that you didn’t like the jalapeno cheese spread.”

Steve rambles on like this for some time, talking about the lighter part of their shared past, interspersed with random questions that didn't need to be answered. He still feels tipsy enough that the words just keep tumbling out, but he doesn’t think Bucky minds. The stream of chatter helps cover the sound of the towel on the bathroom floor sliding across the tiles, and the fork touching down on the plate. Steve’s finishes his own meal and sits there for a few more minutes, savoring his beer while he hopes Bucky is finishing up.

After a while he starts to feel heavy, both in his body and in the memories from Sakhalin, and his rear hurts from sitting on the hardwood floor. It might be time to give up for the night, he thinks, and drops his head back so that it thunks against the wall. “I don’t know if you believe me, but I want to help you. I can’t even begin to understand what you went through. I can’t even—” Steve stops, presses a thumb and finger into his eyes. His throat hurts, so he takes another quick swig of beer, finishing it off. “I just want you to know that I’m here to protect you.”

Steve is out of energy by now, and whatever activity came from inside had tapered off some time ago. He groans when he stands back up, feeling the mistake of sitting on the floor all the way down his left hip. He takes the bag he had retrieved from the living room and pushes it just inside the bathroom, leaving it for Bucky to find in his own time. He considers closing the door but changes his mind, leaving that four inches of open air between them before heading back to the couch.

Steve upends the whiskey bottle down his own throat before he melts back into the cushions. If Bucky sneaks out now there’d be little he could do to stop him anyway, so he may as well get some sleep. Steve tries to think about what he’d tell Fury if Bucky ran away, after his impassioned plea to rescue his old Army buddy. Fury would probably raise that one, extra judgemental eyebrow that floats over his eyepatch, and say nothing at all. Then Steve would get a visit from the general, and have to explain to his dad why he had fucked up. Again.

Of course, if Bucky sneaks out now then Steve would know he had never really wanted to help him in the first place. Could he really blame him?

Really, fuck the CFC if they try to catch him again. Fuck the Pentagon for wanting to use him, in the first place. Fuck the SCF initiative, which would likely be dismantled by budget cuts before the end of the fiscal year. Fuck his dad, just because.

If Bucky wants to leave, Steve wouldn’t stop him. He owes him that much.

* * *

It’s easily the best food Bucky has ever eaten. Ever. In the history of anything.

The chicken is moist and fragrant. It practically falls apart when he licks it off the tines of the fork. The rice is also buttery and hot, with some kind of crunchy acidic vegetable that mixes well with all the lemony seasoning. There’s little balls of white cheese and sweet tomatoes, drizzled with tangy oil and vinegar. There’s even a cup of milk to wash it all down, which is such a relief after all the pepper makes his eyes water and his nose twitch. Bucky licks the plate clean and takes a few gulps of water after the milk runs out. It’s fresh and cool, from a filtered tap.

The captain’s calm chatter seems to taper off after a while, so Bucky retreats back into his niche to wait. Now that his gnawing hunger has quieted down somewhat he suddenly thinks he should have refused the expensive meal. What did Rogers want in return for that? Would refusing it be worse? The captain had made it clear he wanted Bucky to eat it, but the captain also had never struck him before, even when he had been defiant. Of course, that had been in the military, when Bucky had been useful and strong. Karpov made it painfully clear that ferals should expect punishment, even if it was just for human entertainment. Karpov had been a criminal, but none of the other humans had seemed to mind.

Plus, Bucky still isn’t sure what five years and a dash of Zola’s poison had done to Captain Rogers.  

Fuck. Confusing.

“I don’t know if you believe me,” Rogers says from outside the door. “But I want to help you. I can’t even begin to understand what you went through. I can’t even—”

The captain’s voice cracks and he stops to drink more of his beer; Bucky can smell the hops from inside the bathroom. He sounds sincere, but Rogers had wanted to help back on Sakhalin, when he broke apart Bucky and Brock without having a clue that they had been mates.

 _They’re blind,_ Brock had said. _They can't fucking see anything._

“I just want you to know that I’m here to protect you.”

Bucky nearly snorts in laughter at that. Rogers? Protect _him?_ Bucky is shocked the captain is even still alive after five years without a hunter.

Bucky's ears lay back when he hears plastic crinkling and catches sight of Rogers’ hand leaving a small parcel behind, just inside the bathroom door. Then the captain’s shadow retreats down the hall to the living room and Bucky hears him settle back down on the sofa. He’s likely trying to watch the front door, but Bucky can smell the amount of alcohol in the air and doubts the captain could do much to stop him by now.

This version of Captain Rogers sure is a mess, compared to what Bucky remembers of him on Sakhalin. Now that he’s safely out of the captain’s limited earshot, Bucky stretches in his cramped corner, then steps out from the niche. He walks carefully on his feet and one hand, in the awkward three-legged hop he’s gotten used to since living without his left arm, and takes a look at the bag the captain left behind. It’s vacuumed sealed from the CFC, which Bucky hates, but even without being able to smell what’s inside he can tell it’s the package of his own belongings, everything he had on him when he was arrested back in New York.

Bucky sits back, and his tail wraps curiously around him to rest in his lap while he pulls the bag open with his teeth. Inside is his old red shirt, a pair of jeans that never fit right, and undergarments he’d never want to wear again. They carry the chemical smell of the fresh plastic bag, but also hints of Brooklyn, and everything he had been through the last few years. Bucky shoves them into the small trashcan under the sink.

The only other items in the bag are keys to his lockbox at the tenement—probably plundered weeks ago—a few other pieces of junk, cracked human sunglasses and a burner phone that broke when he fell. Bucky shudders and his tail curls at the memory of the cops, yanking it hard enough to make him lose his grip on the fire escape. He blacked out when he hit the top of that dumpster and woke up in a CFC correctional van, realizing his freedom as a feral was at an end. Fucking cops.

Bucky pets his tail to calm the fur down while he rummages through the rest of the bag’s contents. He doesn’t have any pockets in his CFC clothes but he is able to fit everything he needs in his old wallet and tucks that into the waistband of his shorts. Close enough. The rest goes into the trash with the clothes. Along with a few, precious items tucked into his wallet and his new collar, Bucky has everything he needs if he wants to run. He pauses when he touches the brightly colored license. Rogers had given it all back to him, without even looking through it first.

Bucky doesn’t really think about it when he peeks out of the cracked bathroom door, keeping his mouth open so he can pick up every molecule of scent in the still air. It isn’t a conscious decision to trust the human rather than head straight for the front door, or to become sentimental about what they had both gone through together, all those years ago. Somehow, as he stalks down the hall, Bucky is reminded what it had been like to be a hunter, to protect this large, helpless human, and act as his eyes in the dark. He remembers having a sense of purpose, freedom as a valued military asset. He remembers the rapport he developed with Captain Rogers. 

Bucky creeps as silently as possible, avoids all the squeaking boards as he follows the sound of deep, relaxed breathing to the large, overstuffed sofa. Rogers is fast asleep, still wearing bits and pieces of his dress blues. His jacket with all its pins and ribbons and medals drapes haphazardly across on his large shoulders. His face is tense, even in his sleep, and he has lines that Bucky didn’t remember between his eyebrows, but otherwise the captain looks exactly the same as he had all those years ago.

Bucky grimaces at the thought, and can’t help but look down at what remains of his own mangled left shoulder. Still, he has to admit it’s nice to see such a familiar face, and catch all the familiar scents beneath Rogers’s new, strange life. There’s really only one thing left to make sure of, so Bucky touches his wallet again and his license deciding between the two and goes for it.

“Captain Rogers—”

The Captain shoots up so suddenly that Bucky startles away, unbalances, then strikes his lower back against the edge of the coffee table. His elbow comes down hard to steady himself and knocks over a bottle of alcohol with a clatter against the glass tabletop. Bucky catches it before it makes too much of a mess and stumbles away, a few steps towards the door.

“Wait, wait! Bucky!” Rogers sputters, half rising off the sofa but not daring to fully chase Bucky, like he had early when Bucky had tried to find an escape route. The captain’s eyes are huge, trying to see Bucky in the dark living room. Brock’s warning will have to go unheeded for now.

Bucky waits.

“Are… are you okay?” Steve scrunches up his nose when Bucky grunts in response. “Sorry. I know I keep asking that. It’s just you hit that table pretty hard. Looks like it hurt.”

“N-n-not so bad, sir,” Bucky says carefully. He can’t even remember the last time a human asked him a direct question like that. Rogers looks down and Bucky follows his gaze to the liquor bottle, still in his hands. He reads the label elegantly stamped with _Aged 15 Years_ before he lowers it. “A-are _you_ okay, sir?”

Rogers doesn’t look like he knows what to do with that question, so he settles on changing the subject. “Are you going to leave?”

Bucky looks back at the front door, only a few feet away. He could be halfway down to the street before Rogers even got up from the sofa. The captain looks like he practically lives there, lost in the huge cushions. “Would you stop me if I did?” He dares to ask.

“No,” Rogers says, but he sounds miserable when he admits it and breaks his gaze with Bucky, settling instead somewhere at Bucky’s feet. “But if you want to stay I can get you some proper clothes. Some shoes that fit. You could at least stay through the weekend.”

Bucky walks upright to the sofa, and sets the liquor bottle back down on the coffee table with a thunk. Rogers catches his breath when Bucky settles down on the floor, right in front of him. Bucky can smell the captain clearly from this close. His shampoo and his deodorant. The cotton of his shirt, and the fresh sweat that sprang up when Bucky had approached. Normal, human smells. Bucky swallows, before he can speak again. “I need to know something, before I can decide.”

“Anything,” Steve says.

They are alone in the apartment, and Bucky can hear that all of Steve’s neighbors are idle for the night, but they whisper anyway, like they know whatever is happening now is meant to stay between them, and only them. A secret. A truth. “I need to see your scar.”

“My…” Confusion flickers across Steve’s features, before he puts it together and his hand goes to his hip. “From the hole?”

Bucky nods. “I want to see where you were injured.”

“Why?”

“Because of what Brock told me happened on the elevator.”

A change immediately comes over Rogers. He rises up and shakes his head, probably to clear whatever haze is left from all the alcohol he had only partially slept off. “What did he tell you?”

This is the tricky part. Bucky can’t stop his tail from twitching back and forth, but he at least makes his voice steady when he insists. “I need to see it first.”

They stare at each other for a moment, but Bucky doesn’t flinch. He’s already on his knees in front of a human, a captain of the United States Army, his legal keeper, and yet he’s the one making demands.

Finally, Rogers sits up on his knees, unbuttons his slacks, drops his fly and shoves his pants down, then raises up the hem of his shorts on his left side. In the unnatural light shining in from the street, Bucky can clearly see the keloid scar. It looks like the horizon on the ocean, a patch of glassy water, perfectly smooth and still. Bucky looks up at Rogers, can see the heat in his face, but doesn’t back away. The scar is ugly and pale against the rest of the captain’s leg, a ragged line about an inch wide that drips down to his knee, and vanishes up into the soft cotton of his shorts. Bucky plants his one hand on the sofa between Rogers’ knees, pushing himself up higher to get a good look at where it peeks out just above the captain’s elastic waistband. Bucky leans forward, just shy of bumping his nose into the captain’s hip and he inhales with an open mouth. He doesn’t smell a hint of the poison. Doesn’t smell a hint of Zola.

“You really oughta buy a fella dinner first,” Rogers says with a weak laugh at his own joke.

Bucky grins, but not when the captain’s attempt at humor falls flat between them. He sits back, practically colliding with the coffee table again, and gulps hard when it hits him. After so long, he finally found Rogers again. After so long, he knows that his human is safe, and still himself. More than that, after so long Rogers had not forgotten him. The captain had come for him. He had pulled him out of the CFC and given him a license, brought him home, and fed him chicken. Bucky gulps again, because he can’t quite seem to stop, and his grin falters.

“Thank you,” he says. He can’t seem to pick up his ears, and his tail falls down behind him. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Bucky…” The captain’s arms lift as if to reach for him, but he clenches his hands into fists and brings them back down. “After you went up those stairs, and I thought I might never see you again, I regretted not saying this. Thank you, Bucky. Thank you for your service. It is an honor to have served with you.”

Bucky pushes his fangs into his bottom lip as hard as he can as his eyes start to sting. He tries to thank Captain Rogers for the compliment. For the unbelievable respect. For the faith. Instead he cries out, reaches up with his one arm, and gets engulfed in a hug.

“I’m so sorry,” Rogers says into the crook of Bucky’s neck. “I swear they’ll never hurt you again. I swear I’ll protect you.”

They hold each other like this for a long time, Bucky on his knees in front of the sofa, Rogers also on his knees, leaning down to embrace him from above. His long, warm arms wrap easily over Bucky’s mangled shoulder. Bucky’s tail rolls out happily behind him and he lets it, feels comfort in the simple swaying motion it brings to his whole body. Eventually, Bucky has to swallow a compulsive muscle spasm in his chest that would embarrass them both, so he pushes away. Rogers releases him immediately.

“Thank you sir,” Bucky says. “For not getting yourself killed before I could come back to protect you.”

Rogers freezes and it’s awkward for two seconds as he stares at Bucky, with his pants around his knees, and his mouth hanging open in shock. Then he sits back into the sofa and bursts out laughing. It’s a perfect human laugh, head thrown back and his hand clutching his own chest, as if he had been shocked nearly to death by his own delight.

Bucky feels a small bud of pride returning to his chest, but he hides his own smile when he turns away. He hops on all threes to the easy chair next to the sofa, and springs into the seat like it had been placed there just for him. He stretches his relaxed back in one, drawn out extension and yawns before he tucks his legs underneath himself and his tail drapes itself around the curl of his body.

Instead of settling down, Rogers finishes kicking off his pants and tosses his uniform jacket away. “I’ll be right back,” he says. “I swear I won’t get myself killed between here and my bedroom,” he calls over his shoulder as Bucky watches him.

The captain returns with an armload of blankets and pillows that all smell like him, his shampoo and his laundry detergent. More clean, human smells. Rogers passes Bucky a blanket which he tangles himself into immediately, and a pillow which winds up on the floor between them, before rolling himself back onto the sofa.

The captain sighs contentedly after a few moments of silence. “I’m going to take you shopping tomorrow,” he sleepily decides. “Gotta get you some shoes.”

“Star spangled man with the plan,” Bucky says, after another wide yawn of his own.

“I hate that nickname,” Rogers admits into the softness of his pillow.

“I know,” Bucky says. “Sir.”

* * *

AMAZING FANART of the previous chapter from [alynnx](http://alynnx.tumblr.com/post/156709596194/currently-obsessed-with-the-fic-something-wild)!!!! (click for full size) Such beautiful, expressive characters and incredible details! I am just sooooo grateful and shocked and flattered for incredible, talented artists contributing to this verse! 

[ ](http://68.media.tumblr.com/9cafbaa575de63ae7fc92e466412d0cb/tumblr_okqrdieHjG1t33g5po1_1280.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say an extra thank you to everyone excited about snow leopard Bucky and this verse! I really hadn't expected anyone else to be interested in an angsty cat people world, and was never going to share this little fic on AO3, but a few good friends encouraged me to post. I'm so grateful, and so happy, and it's really been an amazing refuge for me while things IRL are going haywire for me. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the support!!


	7. Boundaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

When Steve wakes up Bucky is gone. The apartment is still and silent, in the sort of way that Steve knows he’s alone without needing to look.

Steve breathes deeply through his nose and slowly opens his eyes, already knowing what he’ll find when he looks over to Bucky’s chair. The comforter is folded neatly on the seat, one of his pillows resting on top, like there had never been a cat curled up on it when Steve had finally fallen asleep. He closes his eyes and tries not to feel the disappointed sting.

“Shit,” Steve whispers. Disappointed? Yes, but he’s not all that surprised. After everything that happened, he doesn't expect Bucky to be so easily convinced to trust him with his life. A single hug could never undo all the pain and mistreatment he had been through with the Army and the CFC and fucking people in general. Oddly, there's a twinge of pride that offers some relief when Steve thinks about Bucky's brave choice to strike out on his own.

Steve groggily thumbs open his phone and launches the CFC’s “Here Kitty” app. Stupid name, he bitterly thinks while the map loads. The app doesn't magically summon cats back home, even if Bucky had kept his license on long enough to locate him.

The little blue dot showing Bucky's location—or at least the location of his collar—appears right in Steve’s apartment. Time to play scavenger hunt for the discarded tag. Bucky probably kept the collar as a decoy so that he could—

“Captain,” Bucky says, clearly surprised to see Steve up and looking right at him from across the room. He just walked in through the front door.

“Where did you go?” Steve asks, and Bucky retreats a step back at his tone.

“I-I-I was doing reconnaissance.”

“Reconnaissance,” Steve flatly repeats. “Of my neighbors?”

“It’s not… I’m only…” Bucky is looking for an exit again, even though he’s only inches away from the front door.

Steve relaxes, having learned his lesson. “It’s okay, you’re not in trouble,” he softly assures him, and doesn’t approach. Instead Steve finally gets up and starts folding his own comforter. If Bucky can be so tidy after everything he went through then Steve could make some effort to be less of a slob. He also makes sure to do it with his back to the door, to show Bucky he isn’t focusing on what he’s just done. “I was just worried. Thought maybe you ran.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, his words shaking loose one at a time as he regains his confidence. “I’m not going to. You promised me new shoes.”

Steve bursts out laughing at that and turns back around. Bucky looks a bit like a scolded child, eyes dropped to his own feet, toes curled over one another in his thick socks. Steve feels a tick of guilt for teasing him. “Let’s get some breakfast first,” he suggests, already making his way into the kitchen. He frowns when he peers inside the refrigerator. Right, the whole severed toes thing. “New plan,” he starts, throwing the door closed. “We’ll get breakfast while we’re out.”

* * *

When the strap across Bucky’s chest goes tight, a door of understanding flies open in his mind, and the terror of the unknown beyond sets in. The drugs make his body do things he can’t prevent, like he’s a passenger in a car that someone else is driving, watching as it careens off the road. No matter how hard he wishes, he can’t even find the words to beg Lukin for his miserable life. It’s when Lukin starts cutting into him that Bucky sits up with a shout on the tip of his tongue, gasping in the dark of a strange room. He looks desperately around, catching his breath and piecing together everything he can remember.

Right.

Washington DC. Licensed. Rogers.

Bucky checks that the captain is still sleeping, folds up his blankets and pads silently into the bathroom. He knows he’s left a mess, and if there’s one thing Karpov taught him it’s that a cat exists to clean up his keeper’s messes, not the other way around. Bucky puts away just about everything, even the wire rack with the captain’s numerous bottles of conditioner.

The simple task gives his energy somewhere to go, a reminder that he has a job to do and a human to make happy. After he finishes, his nerves still rattle around inside him, raw and hot from that nightmare. He quickly checks on Rogers— still dead to the world— then slips out the front door. It’s already easier to breathe, just knowing he can. It’s still so early in the morning he figures he has a few hours before Rogers will stir, especially after the amount of alcohol he fell asleep with.

Bucky stands upright and strolls down the hall, tasting the unfamiliar air. It’s strange that cities should have their own smell. He had known the moment Rogers pulled off his muzzle that he was no longer in New York, which only added to all the questions building up inside of him.

How long has he been in Washington DC? Who brought him here? What had Lukin wanted with him? When had he even left the Brooklyn kennel? Bucky’s head hurts and he feels confused when he thinks about Lukin’s lab, so he takes in a few measured breaths and focuses on his current mission.

Bucky hasn’t picked up any of Zola’s scent outside of what clings to Rogers, but he thoroughly breathes in the air outside of the Captain’s apartment, just in case. He doesn’t expect one of the captain’s neighbors to be the source of whatever markers cling to Rogers, but there’s nothing wrong with securing the entire perimeter. Once finished with the captain’s floor, he bypasses the elevator bank and heads straight up the stairs.

The captain’s building has eight floors, nine including the penthouse apartments and rooftop pool. Bucky discovers that sixteen of the captain’s neighbors have cats of their own. Thirty seven of them have mundane cats and dogs. The ground floor has several cafes, a gym and a business center. Apparently, the captain does pretty well for himself, Bucky thinks, walking over the glossy lobby floor in his slippery soft socks. Bucky has only seen this kind of luxury on television. What does it cost to live in a place like this?

Everything is locked up and quiet for the evening, but Bucky still encounters a handful of people as he completes his search pattern. A pair of young women dressed like they just enjoyed a fun evening. A young couple talking in a hushed whisper, the man carrying a sleeping toddler over one shoulder. An old woman and her stupid dog that growls at Bucky when she passes. In big cities like this, there are rarely times when everyone is sleeping. Bucky finds himself wondering if Rogers ever goes out with friends late in the evening, or has attempted to make a family of his own. Somehow he doubts it, and thinks the captain’s average nights involve alcohol rather than companions.

Each time he passes another human Bucky feels his back straighten and his chin lift, correcting his posture to display his collar and shiny new license. Really, the few humans that pay him any attention at all are distracted by his missing arm. It’s not like they could miss the collar if they had bothered to look, he thinks when he finally heads back upstairs. It’s probably the flashiest thing Bucky has ever owned. Still, he touches it fondly as he heads back upstairs, feeling the sure weight of it between his fingers. The tag is sturdy enamel, the RFID sensor likely in the white star at the center of the red, white and blue stripes. The metal is cool against his hand, and he pauses in front of the captain’s front door, painfully reminded of his frosted over dog tags. It feels so good, having something to hang from his collar again after so long.

Whatever Rogers wants from him, Bucky owes him his life, and will make sure to protect the captain’s life in turn, even if he doesn’t think he needs it. When Bucky steps back inside the apartment, he’s met by a completely sober and wide awake Captain Rogers. That’s a surprise. He’s only been gone for twenty minutes. Thirty tops.

“Captain,” he starts, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Where did you go?” Rogers demands, the crease between his eyes telling Bucky he’s definitely wide awake, and not at all pleased with his conduct. Really, Bucky should have known better than to wander off. He’s hardly a feral tom anymore and needs to get used to having a keeper again.

“I was doing reconnaissance,” Bucky says, but it comes out self consciously like a lie, even though he’s telling the truth. Mostly.

“Reconnaissance. Of my neighbors?”

Fuck. The captain clearly doesn’t believe him. Bucky swallows, and realizes he hadn’t quite been ready to have this conversation. He starts to make excuses but Rogers softens suddenly and turns away.

“It’s okay,” he explains, occupying himself with his messy blankets, folding them carefully into a neat stack. “You’re not in trouble. I was just worried. Thought maybe you ran.”

“Oh.” Bucky looks down at his socks and figures he wouldn’t have gotten very far. “I’m not going to. You promised me new shoes.”

Rogers laughs at him and Bucky feels his face heat, but luckily the captain drops the matter quickly, completely unconcerned. Bucky suddenly remembers this from the Army, the captain’s easy sense of discipline for felines, like Bucky couldn’t get him mad if he tried. No, that’s not entirely accurate—the captain had been mad about Brock. Bucky settles down in the living as Rogers reminds himself about the state of his refrigerator.

After declaring that they’d go out for breakfast, the captain frowns down at himself, like he just caught sight of a bug crawling up his shirt. “I need to get in the shower first though,” he admits (finally) and heads down the hall towards his bathroom. “I smell like hot wet garbage on a sunny day.”

“Maybe it’s all the alcohol, sir.” Bucky folds his arm against his chest, and looks out the window so he doesn’t see the captain’s reaction.

“Damn, you and my mom,” Rogers grumbles under his breath, and opens the bathroom door. He stops suddenly in the threshold before he leans back out. “When did you clean this up?”

Bucky shrugs. The motion pulls at the worst of his scar, where it pinches against the remains of his shoulder bone. “Before I checked the building perimeter.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

“I shouldn’t have acted out in the first place.”

“Acted out?” Rogers grunts and shakes his head. “Bucky, what you’ve been through... It’s understandable if you get scared or worried. What happened to you isn’t okay, and isn’t normal.”

Bucky can feel the captain watching him, like he expects some kind of answer, but Bucky isn’t really in the mood to give him what he expects. He opens his mouth, hesitates for only one moment before he looks back out the window. “It’s pretty normal for a cat.”

There’s not much Rogers can say to that, so he just closes himself up inside the bathroom and soon Bucky hears the spray of the shower, giving them both a break from each other.

* * *

Once he’s engulfed in the steaming spray, Steve takes a moment to think.

Bucky had wanted to see his scar because of something Brock had told him happened _in the elevator._ For skittish, terrified Bucky to demand an answer like that, Steve had figured at the time that he better just give him what he wanted. He showed it to him without question, and then…

Steve runs his own hand down his hip, feeling the smooth surface of his old wound. It was as if Bucky had been trying to smell it, when he got so very close. It felt familiar, as Steve looked down at the top of Bucky's head. He had to flex his hands against the urge to touch the cat's ears.

Steve runs his shampoo through his hair, scrubbing his scalp as hard as he can, as if that could knock some fresh memories loose from their time in the hole. The elevator had brought Brock, Captain Ward and Zola to the surface, right before Bucky and Steve had been trapped below, in the explosion. Steve wants to ask about it, to walk through a full debrief from Bucky’s point of view, but even though Bucky trusts Steve enough to stay he clearly has lingering doubts. Steve has to get used to this new Bucky, to learn more about what he’s been through since they left Sakhalin.

How had Bucky even wound up in the Red Room in DC?

Steve realizes he had been staring at the sudsy water drain from his tub for too long, and comes to a decision. “One day at a time,” he quietly says, putting his vow into actual words he’ll have to live by. The campaign for his program is set to last five weeks, once he sends out the kickoff email. Plenty of time to get comfortable with his old hunting cat. For now he’ll give Bucky the space he so clearly needs, and earn the trust that will allow him and Bucky to travel back to the hole together to uncover what really happened.

Steve feels the muscles in his jaw clench when he remembers he has to train Bucky to become an asset for SHIELD while he’s at it. He hasn’t even told Bucky about it, or asked him what he already knows about the Black Panther. Had he even explained to Bucky yet that he’s been requisitioned by the Army for service?

“One day at a time,” he reminds himself, before he shuts off his shower.

* * *

Bucky’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with himself when Steve leaves the room, so he just perches on the arm of the couch and pulls out the wallet he rescued from the CFC’s biohazard bag. It’s still just as thin as he remembered, but with no cash (even though he had at least thirty dollars when he got arrested), his old dog tag (only the one, the other hand been lost years ago when he had still be in the system), and a tattered, crumbling CD insert for a Neko Yuki-chan album. She’s dressed like some kind of bubblegum princess on the cover, gazing out insipidly with exaggerated vulnerability in her huge blue eyes. Her black tipped ears are whiter and fluffier than they should be, naturally. Probably photoshopped. Her pink, glittering tutu is short, inviting everyone to follow her striped stockings up, until they end and her tail begins.

Bucky slides open the single sheet and reads through the Japanese song titles. Yuki-chan sings in English because that’s the more popular language, but the song titles are written in Katakana and Bucky’s Japanese isn’t nearly as good as his Russian. He’d only been deployed to Japan once, and didn’t see much on Okinawa. He stares hard at the foreign script before he flips the insert over where a closeup of Yuki-chan’s face is blowing a kiss out into the world. A big, cartoon sound effect in bubbly Hiragana says “chu!” across the top of her dark bangs. Bucky stares at it for as long as he is able, then slides it carefully back in his wallet before Rogers emerges from the bathroom.

Bucky’s confused by the way he notices the captain return to the living room, slick and wet, steaming from the heat of water. The captain’s clothes are bundled up under his arm and he clutches his towel closed at his hip, and Bucky feels a flash of heat across his face. “Sorry,” he says. “Not used to having company.”

“It’s fine, sir,” Bucky says, as if the captain needs his permission to be half naked in his own house. Who is he kidding? Without that towel Rogers is _entirely_ naked. Are all humans really this _big?_ Bucky is bigger than most toms, but Rogers must be an _exceptional_ specimen of human male.

“Just wanted to check in with you first. Why don’t you come back and we’ll get you some fresh clothes?”

“I don’t have any,” Bucky answers, but swallows the rest of his objection because he wants to follow Rogers, he really does. He’s just busy, _noticing._

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got some you can wear. I’m sure you want to get out of those CFC pajamas.” Rogers tosses his head when he turns back around, summoning Bucky to follow. It’s not exactly an order, but Bucky immediately hops off the sofa to follow anyway.

As they head down the hall, Bucky stares at captain’s glistening back. Broad smooth shoulders top off his tall frame, with a square waist and legs like tree trunks. Bucky finds his head tilting sideways as his eyes follow the hollow of Rogers’ spine, all the way down until his tailbone vanishes under the white towel, into the perfectly round rise of his backside. How do humans walk upright without a tail to balance them? Cats with poached or injured tails walk like drunken toddlers. Bucky’s own tail flicks in annoyance at the awkward mystery of mankind.

Bucky pauses at the threshold of the bedroom, suddenly aware of the personal space he’s about to blunder through. It smells more like Rogers than anywhere else in the apartment, cedarwood and sage and a little bitter gunmetal. It’s nice, not like Karpov’s room at all, and whatever had lingered of Zola’s scent has vanished completely since Rogers showered.

“It’s okay,” the captain says, head already ducked into one of his dresser drawers. He digs with both hands, then just the one when he has to chase the corners of his towel when it threatens to slip away. He retrieves a pair of jeans, tosses them onto his messy bed, then closes that drawer with his hip and opens another. He winds up adding a t-shirt to the pile before he clicks his tongue in disappointment and pulls out a pair of undershorts and fresh socks. “Go ahead and take those.”

Bucky approaches the bed carefully, checking in with Rogers after every step before he touches the shirt with only two fingers. It’s a dark, heather gray, a neckline shaped like a v. The cotton is so soft that Bucky wants to rub it against his neck. He looks back up to Rogers, who nods at him again. “All yours,” he says. “Go on and get changed. Don’t worry about it, it’s all clean.”

 _All clean,_ the captain says, as if Bucky had been worried the luxurious clothes were soiled? “Thank you, sir,” Bucky says, because he doesn’t know what else to say, before he tugs off the CFC’s undershirt in one, smooth motion.

“Wait—” The captain blurts out. Bucky drops the gray t-shirt and immediately backs up a step. He’s misread the situation, Bucky thinks. Apparently the clothes hadn’t been meant for him.

“Sorry, sir. I thought you were giving them to me to wear.” He isn’t sure what the captain expects at this point so he backs up further, one foot in the hallway.

“No! You’re fine. Of course I was. Sorry, I just meant— maybe you want to do that in your own room?”

His own room? Does the captain mean back in the living room? Or the bathroom where he had spent the night? “I— yes, sir. My own room. The bathroom?”

“No, not— Look, forget it,” the captain laughs. “We were all in the Army together, right? Just change where you feel more comfortable.”

Bucky isn’t sure how to respond to that either. The bathroom had been dark and cool, even if the window above the tub was shockingly small. He had managed to sleep comfortably in the living room, so he supposes that is a comfortable room too. Bucky looks back at the captain for further direction but now Rogers looks anxious, clearly frustrated that Bucky isn’t understanding his orders. What does he mean by being in the Army? They were both in the Army but no one would ever say cats and humans served _together._

“Ah, man I messed this up,” Rogers says quietly. He picks up the clothes that were maybe or maybe not for Bucky and pushes them closer to the edge of the bed. “Go on. Whatever you were going to do. Please.”

Well. That’s simple enough.

Bucky pulls on the soft cotton shirt, settling it over the stump on his left with a few firm tugs, then drops the white CFC pants and pulls on the undershorts. They come up uncomfortably under his tail like undershorts always do. Luckily, the jeans have a low enough rise that they don’t rub the spot that has gone raw from where waistbands usually hit him. His tail sways from side to side as it gets used to the free motion. Nice. The _nicest._

Bucky holds the shirt with his teeth when he tries to button the jeans, frustrated that his usual method for closing his ratty old pants doesn’t seem to be working on this new pair. The buttonhole is so tight that he can’t push it through with one hand, and he nearly grinds a hole into his brand new shirt with his teeth while he fights with it.

“Hey,” Rogers voice breaks through his concentration and Bucky steps back, dropping the shirt out of his mouth immediately. Rogers still has his towel held tightly closed on his left hip when he steps around the bed to approach him so he doesn’t seem all that aggressive, but Bucky feels his hackles rise again. “Let me help you with that.”

“I don’t need help,” Bucky says, controlling how much of his teeth he shows when he speaks. He’s been getting dressed himself for five years, thank you very much Captain Rogers. “I can do it myself.”

“I know,” Rogers answers quickly, holding up both hands in surrender. “But you don’t have to.”

“I don’t need you to do it for me,” he insists, making it perfectly clear that just because he has a missing arm doesn’t mean he’s completely worthless. If the captain thinks he needs help with something so trivial then he would never trust him to be his hunter again. Surprisingly, the captain gets the hint, backs away and leaves him alone.

Bucky ignores the small part of himself that had wanted to just give up and let the human button his fucking jeans.

* * *

Steve hadn’t expected the cat to pull off his clothes on the spot, but it’s his own fault for not showing Bucky the guest room earlier. Bucky has probably lived without privacy for years— his whole life, really— and Steve suddenly remembers how pink and soapy Bucky smelled when he first pulled him out of the CFC. He’s not used to the idea of his own modesty. Then of course Steve winds up confusing Bucky more when he tells him to stop, so he just turns away and lets the cat change without bringing it up again.

Despite his best intentions, he can’t help but notice when Bucky starts to struggle with his fly. Steve makes a mental note to slap himself later. Like a jackass, he had given an amputee a pair of jeans instead of nice, comfy sweats he could pull on with one hand.

“Hey,” Steve says and Bucky gives a startled little backwards step. He’s so much more skittish than Steve is used to so he’ll have to learn to moderate his tone a bit better. “Let me help you with that,” he says, softer this time.

Bucky drops the hem of his shirt out of his mouth. “I don’t need help,” he insists, his voice going deep with a warning. “I can do it myself.”

“I know,” Steve says, trying to backtrack. “But you don’t have to.” He holds up his hands, hoping to make it clear that he isn’t going to force the issue, or even approach without express permission.

Bucky looks like he considers it for a moment, then goes back to trying it alone. “I don’t need you to do it for me.”

Steve gets the hint and leaves him alone. He’s still hanging onto his ridiculously small towel, and finally figures he may as well get dressed too. There’s nothing weird about getting changed together; Steve is used to getting dressed in an entire barrack full of other soldiers. Steve tosses away his towel and pulls on his own clothes, ignoring the stick and pull of his damp skin as he buttons up his cobalt blue shirt. He leaves it untucked, too happy to be out of uniform to crease all his corners and straighten his collar.

“Ha!” Bucky shouts triumphantly, pointing at his fastened button with one finger, putting it in its place. He looks up suddenly, expression so alarmed that Steve worries he’s hurt himself.

 _He’s worried what you think of him,_ Steve thinks with a jolt of understanding. _He’s worried you’ll be annoyed with him just for that._ Steve has to stop himself from actually showing how sad that makes him. Instead he gives the cat a lopsided smile. “You showed that asshole who’s boss,” he says, adds a wink as he goes past him out of the bedroom. “Let’s go get you some real shoes.”

So far so good, Steve thinks as he locks his front door. Bucky will get used to trusting him again, Steve will get used to having a cat in his house, and sooner or later they will talk about Sakhalin.

Piece of cake.

* * *

 Since people enjoyed the White Queen's appearance, I commissioned the amazingly talented [Dima Ivanov](http://dimaiv-nov.tumblr.com/) for this incredible beauty! 

 


	8. Veterans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

Steve wouldn't say bringing a skittish hunting cat to Target is the dumbest plan he’s ever had. Steve had done something so stupid the year Bucky had gone missing that he nearly found himself on the wrong end of a court martial and dishonorable discharge. Colonel Danvers had given him one final chance, even though he didn’t really deserve it, and that’s when his father stepped in. Consequently, Steve wound up owing his current position with the JCS to his father. Despite a lifetime of fighting, the General wound up holding Steve’s entire career in his hands, forever.

 _That_ had been the dumbest plan he’s ever had.

This is just a _disaster._

 _Sam,_ Steve furiously texts. _Are u busy? Need help._

 _Roger that,_ Sam almost immediately replies. _Sitrep?_

_At Target on 14th. I have a panicked ex-SCF with me. My model candidate for the initiative. Someone called security. Fuck!?!?_

_YOU BROUGHT A HUNTING CAT INTO TARGET. OMW. Not even gonna apologize for all caps._

_Thx,_ Steve winces as his thumbs fly over the keypad. _Please hurry._

* * *

Bucky isn’t even sure how he wound up jammed into the shelf, his arm covering his head while he shivers.

It had just been a culmination of long, exhausting morning, following Rogers on domestic errands. First there was a bewildering breakfast with way too many people around, then several long car rides through the unfamiliar city he couldn’t smell, a man talking to Steve about where he served, and finally a pair of human children that would not. Stop. Pulling. His. Tail.

When Bucky finally snaps at them, baring his fangs and pulsing a low growl out between his teeth, one screams and the other runs face first into an end-cap display of shiny metal trash cans. The cans go toppling, the human children howl in terror and the captain shouts in alarm all at once and it’s too much.

Bucky has messed up, catastrophically.

Bucky knows he’s out of reach for now. Knows that Rogers is trying to get him to come back down. He also knows the screaming human children have summoned their angry parents, who in turn summoned an angry security guard, who has just showed up and will likely summon the cops.

The cops are _always_ angry when they have to deal with felines, and that’s when the CFC will get involved. Bucky will be disciplined for not wearing his muzzle. He’ll be sent back to the kennel. Rogers might even get in trouble. Rogers might even get _arrested._

Bucky has messed up so badly he can barely stand it so he doesn’t move, despite the captain’s gentle voice and incessant pleading. Rogers even tries to order Bucky to come down, as if he is still his commanding officer, but Bucky isn’t actually in the Army anymore.

Is he?

That thought confuses him more, and adds a terrible sense of weightlessness to his mounting anxiety. He's going to fall or float away or both, so he bites the end of his own tail to ground himself in the moment.

“If you can’t get your cat to come down and leave the store I’m going to have to call feline control.”

“I’m telling you that won’t be necessary,” Rogers explains, his tone so stubbornly firm that even through his panic Bucky can tell that he’s only making things worse. “I saw what happened, those kids harassed my cat after I warned them to leave him alone.”

“Your animal had no right to snap at them,” says the male parent, blowing off the captain’s argument with a dismissive huff. “They’re just kids.”

“Just kids? They’re old enough to know better than to pull on a cat’s tail,” Rogers cooly insists, before his voice takes on an even bolder tone. “Showing no respect for people’s boundaries is how kids to grow into bullies.”

“How dare you!” The female parent screams. She’s red in the face and scowling, holding onto both children by the wrist.

“Sir, this is your last warning,” the intervening guard says again. “If you can’t control your cat then I have to call someone. I don’t want to get the cops involved.”

“Then don’t,” the captain reasons, and the whole conversation starts over again. Bucky bites his tail harder and screws his eyes shut.

* * *

The security guard has just about had it, and so has Steve. He considers punching the guy after he suggests putting a leash on Bucky and dragging him off the shelf. Despite what this asshole dad thinks, Bucky isn’t a fucking animal. He’s just scared, probably having a panic attack, and all this talk of leashes and muzzles and feline control aren’t helping.

“Everything okay here, Captain Rogers?”

Steve heaves a grateful sigh as Sam rounds the corner of aisle. Thank fuck.

“Yes, Major,” Steve says, snapping the answer out with respect. The Air Force officer is wearing his dress blues, flashy service cap and all. “Sorry sir, but civilians spooked my SCF,” Steve explains, his tone slightly condescending as he nods to the family of four, his posture relentlessly rigid. He knows how to play the bad cop.

“I see,” Sam says with concern, pulling off his cap and tucking it under one arm. Always the good cop. “Were any civilians injured?”

“Ma’am?” Steve defers to the red faced mother and the furious father, who are keeping both boys clutched tightly to their hip.

“Ah, I see,” Sam says, and kneels down to eye level with the boys. “How are we doing, soldiers?” By now the boys had been bored enough to fidget at their mother’s side, after the drama of their moment had ended and they went back to being mostly ignored by the adults.

“Fine,” one pipes up suddenly. Apparently, it was hard to stay scared of someone hiding behind a row of pillows. “Aiden ran into the trash.”

Aiden screams with sudden laughter at that, and Steve looks back with concern at the top shelf, just in case the sound had pushed the nervous cat to bolt. He can just make out the spots of Bucky's tail between one pillow that says, ‘we are super heroes’ and another that has a cartoon dog wearing red glasses printed on the front. Collectively the tackiest pillows Steve has ever seen.

“Well,” the mother starts, flustered by Sam’s warm attention and her children’s clearly robust answer. “Frightened half to death.”

“I understand,” Sam says, standing back up to his full height now that the kids had started shoving one another and laughing about being scared of the trashcans, showing off their bravery to the man in the fancy uniform. Sam offers her his brightest smile and she tucks the hair back behind her ears in response. This is exactly why Steve had called Sam Wilson. Every inch of him exudes confidence and charm, from his rich, dark skin and trim goatee to his bright smile with the tiny gap between his teeth— one of those perfect imperfections that adds another layer to his careless good looks.

Sam is a people person, something Steve just never managed to cultivate after his years in the infantry or even his time as a PR monkey at the Pentagon. Sam’s also ten times less likely to punch a security guard, significantly reducing the odds of having the cops called on them. “I’m so sorry one of our military assets wound up startling your children,” he says, with a little bounce in his step when one of the kids breaks free from their mom to try and push the other back into the stack of trash cans. “Would you like me to register a case with the department of defense?”

“The department of— Oh, no, that won’t be necessary,” the man quickly answers. He laughs nervously, and puffs up his own, meager chest while staring at the medals on the front of Sam’s uniform. “Boys will be boys, I guess,” he adds, because that’s what bullies always say and now there’s two people Steve might have wound up punching if Sam hadn’t shown up when he did.

Sam’s laugh is like the chiming of a bell. “That they will!”

“Just,” the woman huffs out a sigh and turns to leave with the rest of her family. “Make sure that animal is more under control the next time you let him out in public.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam agrees, and gives her a slight bow that actually leaves her grinning by the time she and her husband haul their children away. The kids have already moved on, chattering about how ‘cool’ it had been, and how ‘big’ Bucky’s teeth were.

Dimples still showing high in his cheeks, Sam gives the security guard a clap on the shoulder. “We can take it from here,” he said, his voice thick with camaraderie. “Thank you for not letting the situation escalate.”

“Oh,” the security guard says, suddenly conflicted with his duty to see the troublemakers out and a direct order from someone high on some chain of command, somewhere. “Er, sure. Of course. Thanks. Thank you, sir.”

Sam keeps his smile up and his hand raised as the security guard leaves, then turns sharply around, backhanding Steve on the shoulder. It’s not an aggressive strike, just the kind of bravado that tells Steve he’s definitely going to owe him one. “What the _hell,_ Rogers,” Sam whispers harshly.

“Okay, before you say anything—”

“Let me stop you right there. I bail your ass out on my day off and you already want to give me excuses? Tell me what the hell you’ve already done and we can— holy shit, is that him?”

Steve spins around, and see’s nothing but eyes and teeth and the tops of Bucky’s laid back ears. “Hey, pal,” Steve says quietly. “You, uh. You ready to come down now?”

“He’s looking at me, Rogers. Why’s he looking at me?”

“Um,” Steve starts, but Bucky _is_ looking at Sam.

Because Bucky is still Steve’s _hunter._ Suddenly Steve thinks about everything that happened since he woke up. Bucky had checked the perimeter of his floor, maybe even his entire building. Bucky had been trying to see in every direction in the car, behavior Steve’s seen before from guys who get back from war and constantly sweep the road for IEDs. His ears wouldn’t stop mapping the diner where they ate breakfast, and he jumped at the sound of every clattering plate and clinking fork. Then there was that guy in the parking lot with the slight Russian accent, asking where Steve had served. Steve hadn’t noticed at the time, embarrassed and anxious by the man’s heartfelt gratitude, but Bucky had pivoted ever so slightly, so that his own shoulder was in front of Steve’s as they talked.

Bucky is becoming more and more hyper vigilant the longer they spend away from the apartment, Steve realizes. He’s unsure of how to protect Steve in a civilian setting, and it nearly broke him when he encountered children he wasn’t allowed to ‘protect’ himself from. Now Sam, who playfully slapped Steve’s shoulder, is seen as a threat, and all that pent up protective aggression is aimed directly at him.

“Oh, shit,” Steve says.

“Damn right, oh shit.”

“Bucky, this is Major Wilson,” Steve quickly explains, and puts both hands on Sam’s shoulders, bringing him in close. Bucky blinks a few times, and Steve sees his tail lash quickly from side to side as he processes his claim. Steve brushes hip against Sam’s, and he feels his friend stiffen underneath his hands from the full body press. “He’s a good friend of mine. We spend a lot of time together. Maybe you smelled him inside my house?”

“You brought him into your house?” Sam blurts out, holding as still as possible, as if Bucky is a predator that detects its prey by motion, like a T-rex.

“Not the time, buddy,” Steve warns him, speaking through the clenched teeth of his smile.

The pupils of Bucky’s wide eyes slide shut, and he breathes in deeply from his nose as his head raises. “Yes, sir.” With that, Bucky drops off the shelf and lands hard on all threes. He staggers before he stands up, and Steve sees how awkward it is for him to compensate for his missing arm when he adjusts from quadruped movement.

Once upright, Bucky’s body language radiates guilt, gaze stuck to the floor, ears fallen flat. “I… I apologize for my behavior, sir.”

Steve and Sam remain frozen, side by side for a beat, before Steve blows out a breath. “Hey, it’s like I said. We’re still learning.”

“I failed the mission,” Bucky says, punctuating his argument by shuffling his feet. He’s still wearing the huge boots that the CFC sent him home in, and Steve’s borrowed clothes.

“Nah,” Steve says, trying to assure him. “We still managed to get breakfast.” Bucky looks so small and miserable, standing there among the scattered, tacky throw pillows that Steve wishes he could carry him out of the store. “Let’s go home, okay? Back to my place,” Steve adds quickly, when Bucky’s eyes narrow in confusion.

“Oh man,” Sam says. “I’m not going to let you deal with this alone.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Steve! I think your cat almost ate me!” And then, because apparently Steve didn’t have enough problems, “I’m coming with you.”

* * *

Bucky knows he’s sulking when he curls up in the back seat and refuses to put on a seat belt. He _hates_ this Major Wilson person. Who the hell does he think he is, hitting the captain hard enough to make him jump like that? Calling the captain ‘Steve’? Saying such a stupid thing, like Bucky almost ‘ate’ him? Bucky takes a huffy, annoyed breath and glares at the back of Wilson’s head.

He’d never eat a human. He’d just kill one.

* * *

“I do _not_ understand why you live on the fifth floor if you don’t like taking elevators,” Sam complains, stomping up the last few steps. “Is this the secret to how you stay in such great shape when you skip leg day all the time?”

“It’s good for your heart,” Steve argues, laden with all his purchases. Sam had agreed to check out for them while Steve took Bucky to the car. At least they wound up with Bucky’s new clothes after all that, even if they never made it to the shoe aisle. Bucky had refused to get in the car when Steve had held open the passenger’s side door, opting instead to climb in the back and sprawl out across the seats. Steve hadn’t been sure what to make of it at first, until he sees the way Bucky glares at Sam when he meets up with them.

As Steve watches Bucky take the stairs two at a time in front of him, he considers the change in the cat’s behavior. Bucky has taken point of their marching order since they left the store, like he used to back in the Army, instead of staying two timid steps behind him, like he had when they left earlier that morning.

Bucky prowls up the stairs on all threes, then waits upright on the landings for Steve and Sam to catch up, only to set off again ahead of them. Still in predator mode, Steve thinks. He just hopes Bucky can switch it off before he takes exception to Sam again. Steve has seen Bucky kill RNS operatives with his bare hands before, with a look on his face similar to the dangerous, complete focus he had on Sam earlier.  

Bucky waits for Steve to unlock the door then slips inside before Steve can even open it all the way. Scouting, Steve thinks, as he watches the grey length of Bucky’s tail vanish down the hallway. Bucky will look into all the rooms, scenting the air and double checking the exits. He’s seen him do it before, on Sakhalin.

The front door opens into the kitchen, so Steve leaves the single white and red bag full of groceries on the counter before he continues in. “I’ll be right back,” he tells Sam, who frowns at him but helps himself to a seat at the breakfast bar while Steve heads down the hall.

“Bucky?” Steve says, as Bucky casually walks out of the second bedroom. “Find anything in there?”

“The bag the officer from Fort McNair gave you. Nothing else,” Bucky reports back quietly. He still looks nervous, but his tail is hanging low when he leans against the doorframe.

“That’s actually yours,” Steve tells him, and then when Bucky looks up in surprise, “Come on, let me show you.”

Steve’s guest bedroom is like most people’s guest bedrooms. There’s a nicely made bed that’s almost never been slept on, spare furniture arranged to look like it belongs there, a computer Steve never uses, and a closet full of winter clothes. A set of free weights Steve barely touches sits against one wall, right next to a small dresser already half full of junk. There’s a mostly full bookcase, and two spare dining chairs, both buried under uniforms.

“This is your room,” Steve explains, and Bucky looks around again, this time with renewed interest. “Until we can get those barracks on Fort McNair fixed up, anyways. It’s a bit of a mess but I wasn’t expecting company.”

Bucky frowns at that, then reasonably argues, “You were the one that got me out.”

“Er, right,” Steve concedes. He leaves the Target bags on the bed, then collects his uniforms off the chairs. He pulls the sweaters and other extra clothes from two of the dresser drawers. “I wanted to ask you about that actually, if you’re willing to talk about it.”

Bucky watches him from the doorway as Steve gathers up the clothes, and when Steve looks back to him he decides to abort that particular topic. Now’s probably not the time for Steve’s elevator pitch about the SCF program and what Bucky can do for other cats while he’s still downcast over what he clearly thinks had been his own failure. One step at a time, Rogers.

“Okay, how about you just get settled in? Go through these bags. Take the price tags off. Whatever you want. The duffel has a bunch of stuff you won’t need right now because Private Lorraine packed dishes and things. You’ll have your own kitchen in the barracks, but for now you’ll just use whatever I’ve got.” Steve stops himself from fussing over all the junk he’s trying to clean up at once while Bucky silently watches, and realizes he’s rambling on top of it. “Right. I’m going to check back in with Major Wilson. Just. Check out your things. Let me know if you’re missing anything. I’ll come check on you soon.”

Steve takes his huge bundle of clothes and leaves Bucky alone in the guest room, without closing the door behind him. He steps across the hall, hurls his clothes onto his own bed, and makes his way back into the living room. Sam is leaning across his kitchen island, a glass of water in his hands and a second waiting for Steve.

“You’re a godsend,” Steve breathes out, picking up the water and draining half the glass. Steve takes a huge breath and slumps into a bar stool next to him. “I should take one for Bucky. I think I need a real drink though.”

Sam ignores that and gives Steve a slight nudge with his elbow. “Why don’t you give me the debrief? So I know what I’m up against here.”

Steve drops his forehead into his arms and groans. “Have I ever told you about the Zola op?”

“Nope,” Sam shrugs. “Read about it though. What’s that got to do with bringing an SCF into your house?”

“That’s _my_ SCF,” Steve says. “Bucky was with me on Sakhalin. He was with me on the op and saved my life when we got caught in the explosion. Never woulda made it home without him.”

“Ah,” Sam’s tone immediately softens. “This is your hunter. No wonder he’s territorial. Isn’t he supposed to be muzzled?”

Steve smirks, proud of his decision even if Sam might disapprove. “I threw that thing in the trash at a gas station, soon as I got him out of the kennel.”

Sam’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t say anything about the law Steve’s breaking. “So your barracks at McNair weren’t quite done, so you bring him here,” Sam reasons, putting the pieces together. “But he doesn’t have any clothes so less than twenty four hours out of the kennel, you bring a hunting cat, a trained military asset, into Target.”

“...Well, when you put it like that.” Steve drains the rest of his water so he doesn’t have to finish the rest of that sentence.

“Star spang—”

“Don’t say it,” Steve demands, giving Sam a hard point and the other man laughs.

“Okay, man, I get it,” Sam says, sparing Steve the rub. “Cats don’t really get much credit but I know they save more of our guys than civilians will probably ever give them credit for…” Sam trails off and his eyes unfocus on the counter top.

They sit like that for a long time, enjoying the cold water and the silence. It’s Sam who breaks it, his large brown eyes drawn down by something heavy, something Steve knows he doesn’t really want talk about. “Look, making that switch is hard for all of us. We can carry this stuff around in us forever, and sometimes the hardest part is knowing how much of it to bring back and how much to leave there. How much of it to talk about,” Sam looks meaningfully at Steve’s water glass, “and how much of it to drown.”

“Are we talking about me or the cat?” Steve breaks in with a frown. It’s one thing to get teased for bringing Bucky out when he clearly hadn’t been ready, but this is starting to feel like a lecture.

“Why? Do you think that sounds familiar?” Then, before Steve could answer, “One minute you’re commanding two entire units to take down one of the most dangerous men in Russia, the next you’re getting into a fight with a minimum wage security guard over throw pillows.”

Steve snorts in laughter, as Sam had clearly intended, and the tension subsides. He stares at the counter, trying to decide how he’d take Sam’s advice before he finally gives in. “Technically it wasn’t about the pillows.”

Sam smiles at his overt attempt at deflection. “So no, it’s not just about you, even though you both went through the same awful missions. Seems to me like he’s still trying to protect stupid grunts.”

“Stupid _officers_ , thank you very much Major Wilson,” Steve corrects.

“Your words,” Sam gravely nods. “But maybe you should tell him what he should keep carrying, before you bring him out on the next shopping trip.”

Steve looks aside at that, and decides against telling Sam about the volunteer Red Room. He’s already picking up what his friend is putting down, and he isn't sure how Sam’s opinion of Bucky might change if he finds out he had wanted to die. Bucky needs more space, more guidance, more time, more patience. More than Steve might be able to offer him.

Steve wipes his face with his hand. Today is only _Saturday._

“I should check on him,” Steve says quietly. He pours a fresh glass of water, leaves Sam in the kitchen, and heads to Bucky’s room.

The cat is curled up in the exact middle of the bed, surrounded by Target bags and backed up against the large, unopened duffel. His breath is fast but even, his fingers relaxed under his chin and his tail wrapped around his sock feet. Steve puts the water glass down on the nightstand as silently as he can manage before he sneaks out of the room.

On top of going through everything a human soldier would go through, Bucky has survived life on the streets as a feral. Steve’s heard about the squalor and crime, the tenements and infighting, but really has only scratched the surface of what that actually means for an ex-SCF with one arm. The weight of it all seems impossible to carry, and he's not sure he's the one who can help Bucky learn how to navigate his way out from under it.

Steve takes one last look at the napping cat before he eases the door shut. At least Bucky has found some peace while he sleeps. He’ll be okay, Steve promises to himself. Steve has to make the oath for his own sake, as his fear for Bucky's future solidifies in his mind. If something happens to Bucky now, Steve really couldn't make it without him again.

* * *

Bucky comes awake slowly at first, wondering where he is, then sits up as soon as he realizes he had been sleeping. “Captain?” His voice sounds close since apparently someone closed the door. All the new clothes (his new clothes?) are still on the bed, the duffel and everything else seems untouched. Not everything; there’s a glass of water waiting on the night stand that hadn’t been there before.

Bucky leaps out of bed and slips out of the room after he figures out that the sound that woke him was the front door of the apartment opening. He pads silently down the hall, stops just before the living room where he can hear Rogers and Major Wilson speaking in hushed tones.

“Steve,” Wilson says, his voice deep and husky. “I know we agreed we wouldn’t let it happen again, but if you want me to stay the night…”

The question lingers in the air and Bucky bites his bottom lip.

“It’s okay,” Rogers says, because goddamn right that’s what he says. “Thank you for your help earlier. I mean it, I owe you big time.”

“Alright, well. You’re obviously not afraid of using my number,” he adds, his tone shifting suddenly away from anything suggestive in favor of something more sarcastic and rude. “Saving stupid grunts like you is like ninety-nine percent of what we do in pararescue.”

This discussion is clearly well trod for them, a familiar distance kept on purpose, but there’s a long pause that Bucky suspects isn’t part of it. He peeks around the corner to find Major Wilson holding his dark hand against the captain’s cheek, before he turns and leaves. Rogers sighs when he throws the bolt closed on his front door, presses his forehead into the wood until the muscles stand out on his neck from the strain.

“Captain?”

“Shit!” Rogers spins around so fiercely that he hits his elbow against the doorknob and yelps with pain. How? How is this man still alive? “Shit, Bucky. God,” he gasps, holding his elbow. “I need to put a bell on you.”

“I’d still be too quiet for you,” Bucky immediately retorts, but takes a step back as soon as he hears his own defiance. “I mean. You can if you want to. Sir.”

The captain’s face goes red in a flash, and he coughs. “Nope,” he says, a bit loudly. “You hungry? I’m starving. I’m going to order lunch. I’m going to order burgers. Do you like cheeseburgers? I assume so. Meat’s great. I’m sure you can eat it.”

Bucky just nods because he’s starving but doesn’t say anything else. Rogers is speaking way too fast. He doesn't remember the captain being so easily flustered.

The captain’s phone is out already, order probably placed before he even finished talking. “There we go,” Rogers declares, and slips his phone back into his pocket. He seems to calm down after the satisfaction of the completed task. “Burgers on the way. Let’s go sit down.”

Bucky climbs halfway back into the chair that he slept in, but frowns and changes his mind. Wilson had been sitting here, leaving his cinnamon and silk scent behind. Bucky relocates to one end of the sofa, and Rogers joins him, settling down on the other. The captain visibly tries to relax, dropping his hands into his lap and slouching forward, but ultimately fails with a dissatisfied sigh. Still, he says nothing and continues to avoid looking at Bucky.

There’s something bothering him, something keeping his heartrate up and his anxiety spiking. It bleeds into Bucky from where he sits nervously across from him, until he can’t stand it anymore. “Captain, are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah, Buck. I’m fine, I just…” Rogers is watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye. “I wanted to talk to you about—”

“Sakhalin.”

Rogers freezes up, the way he always does right before his posture melts. “Sakhalin,” he admits with a nod, then falls back into the cushions with a woof, right on cue. “Did you hear me talking to Major Wilson about it?”

“Yes, sir.” Bucky pulls his knees up to protect his chest. “Before I fell asleep.”

Rogers nods. He remains silent after making that touchpoint for what feels like a long time before he finally looks back up to the ceiling. He’s trying really hard not to look at Bucky, apparently. “I don’t want you to talk about it if it’s too difficult.”

Bucky isn’t sure what he means, but he picks up on his tension in the captain’s tone and rests his chin on the tops of his knees. “Not difficult to talk about. Just dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Surprise crosses the captain’s features, followed quickly by a concerned frown. “How?”

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it again when he remembers Brock’s warning. “Do you know what happened to Captain Ward, sir?”

The captain blows out a breath, not expecting the question and he and blinks again, in the way humans do when they switch trains of thought. “I read the report. He wasn’t injured when they extracted the elevator cabin from the warehouse. I didn’t see him again though. He had already been sent back home before I woke up in the hospital, along with the rest of Strike. If he’s still in the service I could look him up.”

“Hmm,” Bucky mumbles. So Steve hasn’t seen him since they separated at the elevator. “And Zola?”

“Classified,” Steve answers immediately. “I mean, I don’t actually know. If I did I couldn’t tell you. I assume they took him to some CIA black site for interrogation. I haven’t heard anything about him dying in custody or a trial. I tried to look it up a few times but it’s way above my security clearance.”

Bucky nods again. He feels slightly ill at the thought of Zola being hidden away somewhere, like he never existed. Somehow he feels like those shadows are just what Zola needs, like a malignant fungus growing in the dark. It scares Bucky worse than the thought of Zola being free, since then at least he’d be actively hunted.

“Brock is here in DC, if you want to know,” Rogers says suddenly, like he had been waiting and only just made the decision to say so. “Did pretty well for himself after the op. Recruited to the Secret Service.”

Bucky stares at him. “Why would I want to know that? Sir.”

“Thought you might be curious about what happened to him. Since you guys were,” the captain’s mouth makes a few shapes before he settles on one. “Close and all.”

Bucky wants to insist that he doesn’t care, that he had hardly been ‘close’ with the other F-5, but he frowns instead. Brock is here in DC? That’s an interesting coincidence, since Bucky certainly hadn’t planned to be here himself. If Ward also shows up in DC that would be beyond a coincidence.

Bucky would probably run, license or no license.

Although, he reconsiders when he looks across the length of the sofa. Bucky is still cultivating that tender bud of trust in his chest, and it opens up incrementally when Rogers finally turns his head and their eyes meet, across the gulf of space between them. For the first time since that horrible op, Bucky thinks someone might actually believe his story. “Do you remember Zola’s bunker?” Bucky carefully prods. “That underground room with all the servers.”

“It was an ultimate heat sink, for an old nuclear reactor,” Steve cuts in. “That’s what the hole actually was.”  

“Huh,” Bucky says, and his ear flicks in annoyance. He didn’t think there had ever been a nuclear reactor on Sakhalin, and he knew that island pretty well. “So when we were down there, Captain Ward and Brock took Zola into the elevator. That’s the part you can’t really remember, right?”

“Yes,” Captain Rogers says, without hesitation. “How did you know?”

Bucky holds the end of his tail where it sits on the top of his feet, to stop it from curling. “This is going to sound… strange. Zola poisoned you.”

The captain’s mouth is pressed into a line, considering Bucky’s words for a few moments before he accepts it with a nod. “Okay. Something psychotropic? How did he deliver it? Syringe? Gas?”

“With his face,” Bucky says and Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “Captain, Zola’s face did something when he got on that elevator. It changed, or opened up. A long barb or tentacle shot out of his face and hit you right below your hip.” Bucky points vaguely to the captain’s hip with a nod.

“What!” Steve has a skeptical smile on his face from the ridiculous claim, but it looks painful, like his mind is suffering from wanting to believe that Bucky is telling the truth anyway. “What the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying he’s not human.” Bucky thinks about the overwhelming fear sense that pours off Zola, and the oily tang of his poison. “I was close enough to tear the barb out almost immediately. It broke off in my mouth. Zola got Ward in the elevator though, because Brock,” Bucky winces. This is the part that gets truly unbelievable to humans. “Brock says he stabbed Zola, all the way through the chest with his machete, and in the throat with his knife. But Zola kept going. He just ignored the injury. Brock says he has more of those barbs, too many of them to stop. Brock tried to take him down with his bare hands but then Captain Ward, he ordered Brock to stand down. Almost shot him for attacking the prisoner. By the time they made it to the surface, Captain Ward acted like nothing ever happened. Brock told me he tried to tell other people. I’m not sure who, but no one believed him. Ward threatened to report him for misconduct for attacking the HVT, so Brock warned me before he left.”

The captain has the heel of his hand pressed into his eye and he shakes his head as Bucky gets through his story. After it comes to an end, there’s a moment of tense silence between them. Bucky can’t even hear the captain’s breath, and suspects he’s holding it, waiting for it all to start making sense.

Bucky wishes the captain would say something, because he’s starting to think he’s fucked up. His instincts had been wrong, and Rogers couldn’t be trusted, any more than the others. Rogers will think he’s lost his mind, along with all his discipline and self control and his fucking arm.

Fuck.

Bucky’s voice comes out weak when he says, “You don’t believe me. Do you, sir.”

“I believe you,” Rogers says, again with no hesitation. “I don’t remember everything but I,” he shakes his head, then finally meets Bucky’s eyes. “I believe you.”

Bucky swallows, tries not to let his surprise show. “There’s… there’s more.”

“Course there is,” Rogers bitterly agrees.

“Brock said that when Ward stopped fighting back, when Ward wasn’t really Ward anymore, he said something strange. It was the same thing that the Russian feline guard said to me, when he was dying.” Bucky looks down at his remaining hand, and curls his fingers into a clawed grip. The Russian cat wore a strange set of gloves tipped with metal claws. What would it be like to have weapons on his finger tips? The humans already think he’s some kind of walking machine gun, just with his damn testicles still attached. That RNS cat had clearly been used as a countermeasure for the US SCFs. Bucky comes back to himself suddenly, realizing he had been quiet for too long and Rogers is still patiently waiting for him to continue. “He said, hail hydra.”

“Hail... _hydra?”_ Steve repeats it slowly, his lip curling up as if he didn’t like the way that word tasted, in particular.

“Have you ever heard that before? Do you know what it means?” Bucky is a little worried Rogers will say yes.

“No,” Rogers admits with a shrug. “But I know someone who might. She might know more about Zola too.”

* * *

 

Someone asked for some Steve, so I commissioned this beautiful Steve in uniform from the glorious [DeanDraws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/post/156780939770/speed-sketch-commission-for-resiononao3-check-out)! Additionally, I went ahead and added some meta about his role at the JCS. I shared this on my Tumblr, but thought I'd go ahead and include it here as well for posterity. If you're interested in more meta for this work, feel free to ask! 

**Captain Rogers, reporting for duty!**

In Something Wild, Steve Rogers works for the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS). In movies you usually see the “joint chiefs” as a bunch of grumpy lookin fellas that advise the president, but in reality it’s a large organization, which commands its whole own zip code within the Pentagon! 

Within the JCS, Steve specifically works for the [J5 Directorate](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.jcs.mil%2FDirectorates%2FJ5%257CStrategicPlansandPolicy.aspx&t=YzVjOTEwMjQ4M2E1Nzk0NWUzZDE5Y2E4YjhhMGMwMTczOTZkZmVmZix4M3p5enFscQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AezyjtN2WCJA2MY21E4U8FA&p=https%3A%2F%2Fresinonao3.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156924323093%2Fdeandraws-speed-sketch-commission-for&m=1), which is responsible for strategic plans and policy. Steve’s role, in particular, is the manage the image of the Commander in Chief, and how his military operations are perceived by the public. 

Steve’s boss, Lt. Gen. Nicholas J. Fury, is the director of the J5, and reports directly to the Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who is a character I haven’t yet revealed in Something Wild.

In addition to the Purple Heart for the wound Steve received on Sakhalin, he has a number of other commendations. The blue cord he wears on his shoulder specifically shows his role in the infantry. 

Since Steve was appointed to this position by his own father, he doesn’t respect it as much as he might if he felt he had earned it on his own. On top of feeling like a dancing monkey on behalf of the president’s publicity, he feels like he isn’t doing what he really should be, commanding infantry operations that continue in Russia and other terrorist hot spots, like Sakhalin. 

When his JCS pin is mentioned, this is what it looks like, and is typically fastened to the front of his left breast pocket. Familiar looking shield, right in the middle of it, right? ;) 


	9. Spy Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

“Who?” Natasha coyly asks over her shoulder, as the escalator crawls down to the ground floor.

“Come on, Nat,” Steve says, not nearly as amused by her deflection as she is. “Leader of the RNS, mastermind of seven of the world’s top ten deadliest terror attacks, captured in his bunker by Captains Grant Ward and Steve Rogers, I got a medal…” Steve trails off, waiting for her to remind him he actually got two.

Nat answers with a roll of her eyes and turns back around as they approach the bottom, not playing along. “You think I know where they’re keeping him?”

“I mean,” Steve stutters, instinctively backtracking out of discussing classified intelligence in public. Then Bucky’s defeated face comes to mind, and the Steve thinks of the bravery it must have taken for the cat to trust him with his story. “Actually, yes? You’re a spy aren’t you?”

“No idea what you’re talking about, Captain,” she answers. “I work in administration.”

Administration. Right. Last week it was finance and just the day before it was _‘not in the right time zone.’_ Steve knows she does this on purpose just to mess with him but right now he's not in the mood. “Come on Romanoff,” he pulls up short next to the fountain at the foot of the escalator and Natasha takes a cautious step backwards at the sudden shift in his tone. “I need your help.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow as she takes another look around their surroundings. “This why you asked me out to a shopping mall for lunch? You afraid of who might be listening to this conversation?”

“Should I be?”

Natasha’s blink skips a beat, and for a moment he thinks he might have actually caught her off guard. She gives him a slow, closed mouth smile. “For someone who hates all this spy stuff, you’re not so bad at tradecraft, Rogers.”

“Tell me about Zola,” Steve insists, hushed and urgent. “I never would have found Bucky in the Red Room if you hadn’t lead me right to him. You know more about what’s going on than you let on.”

“Zola’s case is classified,” Natasha reiterates, conveniently skipping over the part about what happened at the CFC. “Have you talked about this with Director Coulson?”

“Coulson?” Now it’s Steve’s turn to be taken off guard. “What does SHIELD have to do with this?” The pieces suddenly drop into place, without needing an answer. “You’re with SHIELD. You work for him.” The anger hits him hard and swift; betrayal not something he’s used to. “You’re the one that told him about my SCF initiative?”

Natasha’s red curls bounce from side to side when she shakes her said. “Close, but not quite. I can’t tell you anything about Zola. Hydra on the other hand— ” Suddenly Natasha stiffens, then her entire manner changes, like the flip of a switch. Every line in her body relaxes and she giggles, tucking her arm into his elbow. “Wanna indulge in a cheat day with me, Rogers? I feel like a hot pretzel.”

Just like before, Steve picks up on her game and puts a spring into his step as they leave the fountain, heading deeper into the mall. If anyone is watching, they’d see a young couple enjoying their Sunday afternoon. This exchange immediately tells Steve two things: that they are likely being watched at this very moment and that Natasha, surprisingly, doesn’t want to be found out either. It doesn’t make it better, but it soothes the sting of her dishonesty.

Really, it’s Steve’s own fault for trusting a spy in the first place. It's not like she's his friend. Steve laughs at nothing, keeping up the charade when she giggles and pulls out his phone. He taps the Here Kitty icon on his home screen, terrified that he’s already inadvertently put Bucky in danger.

Today is only _Sunday._ So much for one step at a time.

* * *

Bucky is painfully bored.

Rogers said he’d be gone for two hours, and it’s only been one. Scratch that. Only _forty-five minutes,_ Bucky corrects himself after he peeks at the clock over the stove. He’s taken a shower, a nap, and completed a walkthrough of the entire building (again.) He tries watching television but some stupid show comes on about a police officer whose feline partner doesn’t seem to know how to walk upright. Bucky shuts it off, annoyed.

After their talk the day before, things between himself and the captain had gone quiet and strained. Luckily, the food had arrived shortly after, giving them something to do, and then Rogers walked him through all his new belongings like Bucky was both an idiot and hard of hearing.

Now that Bucky has clear mission objectives, everything around him has fallen into place. He doesn’t need to be in the military to know Rogers can’t be trusted with his own safety. He doesn't need his F5 rank back to know how to do that. He certainly doesn’t need to be shown the hole in the underpants they got that his tail could fit through.

Great. Underpants for cats. Got it, Rogers.

What Bucky doesn’t understand is why the captain has to go on some kind of domestic mission without him. Rogers had been glued to his phone all morning, and after he announced he was leaving to meet his friend he put on the TV and told Bucky to make himself at home.

Bucky looks at the clock again. Forty-nine minutes, this time, and Bucky growls at the ceiling. He’s not used to being inactive. Downtime in the military had been almost unheard of, and idle cats never lasted long in the feral tenements. There had always been something to do for Karpov, some bag to pick up or corner to stake out, guns to hide and humans to track down. Karpov sees the value in military trained cats, even if civilians don’t.

Bucky rolls off the sofa, ungracefully wipes out when he fails to land on all fours, then springs up to full height, grateful no one is around to see. He yawns and stretches, extending his tail to its full length before he walks on his toes to the kitchen, where he hopes to find something to eat. The persistent hollow in Bucky’s tummy has become distracting since Rogers had started feeding him regular meals, and breakfast hadn't gone very far. The captain _had_ said to make himself at home, and pointed specifically to the fridge on his way out.

Bucky hesitates with his hand wrapped around the smooth, steel handle. Karpov would have said something like that as a test, and then killed any of the cats that actually took some of his food.

Well. Fuck him.

Bucky wonders if Karpov had even noticed him missing, when he failed to return from the run that got him arrested. He hopes not.

Inside the refrigerator is a whole carton of eggs, milk, butter, cheese and a plastic container full of grilled chicken. The captain never seems to have a lot of food in his house, even after going shopping, so Bucky suspects there’s some shortage Rogers is dealing with. He reaches first for the plastic container, curious about the cold, cooked chicken, and then pokes the thick block of cheddar cheese. Had any of it been meant for him? Or is Rogers just carefully sharing his rations?

Bucky doesn’t know how to cook, but the scent of the pre-cooked meat instantly makes his mouth water, despite it being cold. He could get away with just one piece. Or two. Rogers _had_ told him to help himself to anything inside, so maybe three. Or four.

Twenty minutes later, Bucky has devoured the entire container, half a block of bright orange cheese on six slices of bread, handfuls of other things he doesn’t even remember eating, then vomits in the toilet. Shivering and nauseous, Bucky crawls back into the center of the bed in his room, and curls tightly up on himself, hoping the cramping will go down before Rogers returns home.

* * *

Natasha hums after tearing off a healthy chunk of her bacon-maple flavored hot pretzel with her teeth. Steve didn’t even know they came in bacon-maple flavor. He’s not nearly as good as she is under this kind of pressure, and he’s pretty sure he’d throw up if he takes a bit of his own garlic parmesan. Frankly, he’d be a lot happier if the people who may or may not be following them just started shooting.

According to Here Kitty, Bucky is still in his apartment, even though Steve had traced his “paw prints” and saw Bucky had walked the entire building perimeter twenty minutes before Steve checked in. Had Bucky done that of his own volition? Had he been running from someone? Hiding?

“Go home,” Natasha says suddenly, her voice dropping low and smoky. “Pretend none of this happened. We met for lunch but I had to leave. Tell no one else about Hydra.” Natasha was already frowning down at her phone. “And stop asking about Zola.”

“No,” he says, when he really should have said, _like hell._ “If I’m going to get caught up in a spy game, I need to know all the players. If I can’t find out from you then—”

“Rogers I am telling you this as a friend,” she cuts in. “Give me some time to find out more. Don’t do something stupid.”

“Are we friends, _agent_ Romanoff?” Steve says, the accusation clear.

Her head jerks up with a sharp look, and suddenly Steve thinks he’s misread the situation, not just about Zola but about Natasha herself. “We’re not enemies,” she finally says. “I think you’re smart enough to know that you’re poking into things that are larger than just you and Bucky.”

“I’m smart enough to know that I’ve got a few pieces to this puzzle that you don’t,” he insists, not backing down.

Natasha’s eyebrow goes up as she searches his face, but she doesn’t immediately answer. When her gaze locks onto something over Steve’s shoulder he instinctively turns around, and catches a casual wave from a cat above them. He’s leaning against the rail of the upper level with one elbow, after giving Natasha some signal. The cat has scruffy blond hair and sloppy clothes, jeans with holes in the knees and a faded leather jacket. He also has knicks in his tortoiseshell tabby ears, like he gets into too many fights. If it weren’t for the purple collar around his throat Steve would have thought he was looking at a feral. “Friend of yours?”

“Not an enemy,” Natasha answers smartly, and Steve could feel the snark in the words. Forgiven but not forgotten.

She pops the last bite of pretzel into her mouth. “Give me a week,” the cool, distant Natasha he knows best resurfaces as she offers her terms. “Then you get to see the rest of the playing board.” She wipes her fingers with a paper napkin before she tosses it into the trash. “And relax. Go home, spend some time with your cat, get him on board with the whole SCF program. Let me do my job.”

Natasha leaves after that, heading the opposite direction from where they entered the mall. Steve glances up and catches the scruffy cat on the railing step away, probably to meet up with her. The whole exchange has left him with a surplus of adrenaline, jittery like he had just been slightly electrocuted. He tosses his greasy pretzel in the trash before he heads back to the parking lot, pace quickening as he approaches his car.

One thing that is sure to make Steve tense up is being told to relax.

* * *

“Bucky?” Steve marches through the apartment, trying not to sweat over the fact that the cat didn’t meet him at the front door. Bucky should have heard him coming from a mile away, but Steve tells himself that’s no reason to panic. He’s not some pet that gets excited for his master’s return home. “Buck?”

Steve’s anxiety had climbed exponentially after leaving the mall. During the drive he went over all the moving parts a hundred times in his head, trying to fill in the gaps between Sakhalin, SHIELD, Zola, Ward, and Bucky, Bucky, _Bucky..._

Steve already knows that he’s on SHIELD’s radar (thanks to Natasha—fuck) but where does that leave his cat? Bucky doesn’t have a fancy position at the Pentagon or a powerful General for a father to protect him. Bucky has a missing arm and a past full of holes, a criminal record and a body that requires him to wear a muzzle in public.

Bucky is so helpless he had chosen to die, less than a week ago.

“Bucky!” Steve cries, throwing open Bucky’s bedroom door.

Bucky jerks his head up from his pillow, which he hugs tightly against his chest. His ears are flattened, his face pulled tight with pain. His skin is so pale he looks almost green.

“Captain,” Bucky starts, voice hoarse. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” He shifts as if to get up, then winces in obvious pain.

“What happened to you?” Steve’s worry about silent assassins evaporates as he takes in the sheen of sweat across Bucky’s brow. “Are you sick?”

“Sick,” Bucky repeats, blinking slowly. “Yes, sir. Sorry sir. I… I think I ate too much.”

Steve had passed a bit of a mess in the kitchen on his way inside. It had looked like someone had gone through all the cupboards, leaving half of a meal on the cutting board. Steve tries to think of all the food in house—nothing that should have made a cat sick. “You didn’t have any alcohol did you?”

“What? No. It’s bad for cats.” Bucky plants his face back into the top of the pillow, so that only his ears show above the soft cotton.

Steve sighs, laughs a little in relief. Was he really worried someone was going to break into his house and assassinate his cat? _You’re losing it Rogers,_ he thinks, grateful for such a normal problem. “I’ll get you some water. Stay there.”

When Steve fills up a fresh glass of water from the filtered tap he sees all of the stuff Bucky had gotten into, including an entire container of grilled chicken he had been planning to use in an alfredo that night. It’s no wonder Bucky got sick, but Steve frowns as a worse thought occurs to him. Bucky must have been _starving_ if he had eaten all of this food.

Steve thinks about the way Bucky cleans his plate after every meal, his nose following the scent of it all the the way to the sink, then watches carefully as Steve washes the dishes and puts away the plates. Looking for more.

“Hey, pal,” Steve says gently, walking back into the room. “You really packed away some calories.”

“Sorry, sir.” Bucky has twisted so that his shoulders are flat against the mattress, and holds the pillow against his armless side. “I didn’t mean to eat so much of your food.”

“It’s your food too,” Steve says, and folds his arms across his chest because he doesn’t think it’d be appropriate to sit down on the bed next to him. “And you don’t have to be sorry.”

“Feel pretty sorry,” Bucky grumbles, tucking his face back into his pillow as his tail curls tighter around his knees.

Bucky is the biggest cat Steve has ever seen, aside from maybe Brock. This trained hunter could kill half a dozen RNS soldiers before they even realized he was in the room, with nothing but a pair of knives. Now, he’s curled into a ball, shivering and pale, because he ate an entire bucket of chicken, a pound of cheese, and Steve suspects more than one raw egg.

_Weak as a kitten._

Bucky would absolutely hate it if Steve had said that out loud, but Steve can’t help but smile when his chest starts to grow with fondness thinking it. “I’ll get you some Pepto. Drink some water if you can.”

When Steve is halfway to the bathroom he stops in his tracks and looks down at his hand. After he had placed the water down he had brushed down the curve of Bucky’s head, giving him a single scratch behind the ear, then left the room like nothing had happened. He hadn’t even thought of it at the time, like that is just something he does. It isn’t, and it’s certainly something he should apologize for.

Pepto in hand, Steve returns to Bucky’s room with a hot face. “Here you are,” Steve says, handing the little plastic cup full of chalky pink sludge to the sick cat.

Bucky instinctively reaches up to take it but his hand stops in mid-air. “What the hell is that?”

Steve laughs. Apparently, Bucky’s filter breaks when he’s sick. Either that or he’s getting back to his old self. “I know it looks like poison, but it’ll help. Promise.”

Bucky’s blue eyes narrow and flick back and forth between Steve’s promise and the medicine he clearly thinks might be actual poison. “Yes, sir,” he finally agrees, as if he had been ordered, and throws back the pink stuff. His ears shiver as his face twists with disgust, and Steve bites his own tongue to stop himself from laughing. “Tastes like the clam chowder from the mess hall.”

Steve shouts with laughter and Bucky hides his face back under his arm, still miserable. “You seemed worried when you came in, sir,” Bucky murmurs into his arm. “Are you okay?”

“I— yeah,” Steve lies. “Don’t worry about it. I met a friend for lunch but she had to go.”

Bucky looks out from under the crook of his elbow, gives him a suspicious squint, then hides again. “Threw up in your bathroom,” he confesses to his pillow.

“It’s okay. Actually, I wanted to ask— were you just… have you been hungry? This whole time?”

Bucky nods.

“Aw,” Steve says, and sucks in a breath. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Sir?”

“Bucky, if you’re not getting enough to eat. I just.” Steve looks down at his feet, then pulls out his phone to stop himself from shuffling. “I have never done this before. If you’re hungry you can always say so. I’ll get more for you.”

“You don’t have a lot, sir,” Bucky hedges. “You already give me so much.”

“Just because I live like a pathetic bachelor doesn’t mean I can’t just buy more groceries.” Steve is googling the recommended caloric intake for cats while he’s talking, so he doesn't see Bucky's confused expression. When he finally lands on a chart that separates cats by age and weight his jaw drops. “This says you need to consume six thousand calories a day.”

Bucky peeks at Steve, but otherwise doesn’t react.

“That’s _twice_ as much as I do, and I eat _a lot._ Did you eat that much in the Army?”

“I don’t know, sir. I ate what I was given. In New York I ate whatever I could find. I felt like I was always,” he pauses and swallows, and Steve wonders what he really wants to say. “Hunting.”

“You must have been starving,” Steve says with a groan. Bucky was already underfed when he pulled him out of the CFC and now Steve has essentially been feeding him table scraps compared to what he needs. The more Steve reads about feline nutrition the more he sees the suggested breakdown of protein, fats, and other elements sorely lacking from Bucky’s diet. The web site goes so far as to suggest small portions of raw meat, and bone marrow for a healthy coat. “You must have been _starving.”_

“Well,” Bucky says thoughtfully, still just as miserable. “Not so much right now, sir.”

Aw. Steve sighs, and knows it’s time to buy some real groceries and stop acting like Bucky is just some houseguest. He should read the manual the CFC sent him home with, and make a tally of all the things that could make him sick. He should also start seeing about some physical therapy for the kink Bucky carries in his shoulders for over-compensating against his missing left arm. Steve slows down for a minute and realizes the first thing he should actually do is make that apology. He sucks in a breath, hoping that’ll give him some courage. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

Bucky frowns from under his arm.

Come on, Rogers. Don’t punk out. “Er, well, I should keep my hands to myself. I don’t know what made me. Well. No excuses.”

Bucky finally looks out from under his elbow, confusion painted all over his face. “I don’t understand, sir. What did you do?”

“I— Before I went to get you the pink stuff. I touched your, er, your—” Steve reaches up and brushes his own ear. He’s not used to being so tongue tied, and he can already tell from the heat on his face that he must be red as a tomato. Way to make it awkward, he tells himself.

“Oh,” Bucky says, and relaxes. “That’s okay. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Respecting people’s boundaries is important,” Steve firmly argues, echoing his statement from the day before. He’s a hypocrite if he doesn’t practice what he preaches, after all. “I don’t want to make you feel like you don’t get any.”

“Just don’t pull my tail,” Bucky says with a grin, and his tail coils up, the tip thumping up and down as if it heard its name and wants to be part of the conversation. “We’ll be fine, sir.”

Steve leaves Bucky to rest, those words echoing in his mind. _We’ll be fine._ Sure they will, Steve thinks. As long as he learns what it actually takes to keep a cat, and figures out what the fuck is going on with Arnim Zola.

* * *

Bucky wakes up twenty minutes later feeling much better. He’s able to nail his three point landing when he drops off the bed, despite his one arm covered in pins and needles from falling asleep on top of it. Whatever that pink medicine was that the captain gave him had worked. He still doubts he’ll ever feel the same way about cheddar cheese again, but at least his stomach isn’t going to fold itself inside out.

He pads into the living room and finds Rogers hunched over on the sofa, practically glaring at his laptop screen with a pen stuck between his teeth. He’s so focused that Bucky could probably sit on him before he notices. So he does.

“Christ! Bucky! What!” The captain’s pen goes flying when Bucky lands on the sofa right beside him, the sinking cushions forcing them together for a brief brush before Bucky sits back. If the captain is ever going to learn to hear Bucky coming, he really needs to start paying attention. Bucky settles on the opposite end of the sofa, giving Rogers space to collect himself.

“Sorry sir,” Bucky says, not sorry at all. “You're a lot jumpier than on Sakhalin.”

“Yeah, Buck. Damn, I’m at home not in some shithole war zone.”

“Sakhalin wasn't so bad.”

Rogers pauses, watching Bucky for a moment before he gives a smile that makes something in Bucky’s chest clench. “No, I guess it wasn’t.”

The mood immediately goes solemn after that, and Rogers looks back down to his laptop screen. Apparently, he has been reading a blog about how some kinds of houseplants can give cats skin rashes and cause “unseasonable” shedding. Bucky already knows the captain’s plants are all withered husks by now, so he’s not entirely sure why Rogers became so focused on it. Maybe that occurs to the captain as well, because he sighs and closes the laptop. “It must have been awful for you, coming home.”

Bucky feels his tail shiver at that, and keeps his ears straight when he brings his knees up under his chin. “It… I don’t really… I can’t—”

“I know,” Rogers easily fills in for him, taking the burden of answering that unasked question. “I don’t like to talk about it either. After I went back for my last tour of duty they assigned Dumdum as my SCF-h. Did you know that?”

Bucky smirks. “No, sir. Dumdum, huh? How did he do?”

“Well,” Rogers says with a laugh. “Let me tell you about the damn bootleg DVDs…”

* * *

They talk well into the evening, Steve doing most of the actual speaking while Bucky follows along with wide eyes and forward ears. They talk about Sakhalin mostly, then New York, then not much at all. The few things Bucky has to say about New York skirts around how he had actually lived there as a feral, and he never mentions his injury. Steve desperately wants to ask, but he doesn’t want Bucky to talk about it out of some fucked up sense of obligation. Steve isn’t stupid, he realizes Bucky takes questions like orders, and even though the cat seems to be testing his boundaries a bit Steve can tell Bucky isn’t ready to talk about something so personal. The closest they get to a touchy topic is when Bucky lets it slip that he doesn’t like elevators either, and that’s when they effortlessly change the subject to baseball.

They don’t talk about the CFC or the Red Room, Steve’s SCF initiative, or the Black Panther. They stay in the past, where it’s safe and familiar, and let Sunday slowly fade away. Steve knows a flashpoint when he sees one, and realizes the single week that Natasha had given him is a rare gift. Soon, things would get too complicated for him and Bucky to enjoy quiet evenings like this and he’s going to take advantage of it while he can.

* * *

That night Bucky goes to sleep in a real, human bed. By himself. Alone. In a whole room, without anyone else.

It’s just as awful as it sounds.

It doesn’t take long before he gives up on stringing together twenty minute cat naps and relocates to the living room. There’s a better vantage point of the front door, tall ceilings that give Bucky room breathe, and that comfortable chair that Major Wilson almost ruined.

Before he even circles the sofa the sound of the captain’s regular breathing reaches his ears, and Bucky finds Rogers passed out there with one arm flung over his eyes. Bucky isn’t all that surprised by the number of bottles on the floor, the coffee table or even tucked into the crook of the captain’s arm (come on, captain…)

Instead of waking him, Bucky relocates the captain’s discarded drinks to the kitchen, emptying out whatever’s left of the beer down the sink and re-corking the three (three!) hard liquor bottles. He pulls the throw blanket off the back of the sofa and drapes it over the captain’s huge shoulders as they continue their steady rise and fall of deep, drunken sleep.

Bucky has his work cut out for him, he thinks as he settles into the chair that only vaguely still smells like the major. Rogers makes a small sound in his sleep, and his hand instinctively clutches the edge of the blanket that Bucky left there. Once he settles back down Bucky tucks his face under his own arm and sighs. It’s strange that he’s wound up here, after everything that’s happened since he left Rogers in that hole. It feels like just days ago when he had left Karpov’s feral tenement, and Lukin’s laboratory was…

Bucky shivers, and wriggles his nose when the end of his tail brushes against his face. He takes the tip between his teeth to distract himself from worrying, and it isn’t long before he drifts off.  

In the morning Rogers awakens easily, and doesn’t seem surprised to see Bucky there, where he’s meant to be, watching over him.

* * *

Bucky in his super tiny panties commission by [Ria](http://riakomai.tumblr.com/post/157277013239/riakomai-snow-leopard-bucky-in-tiny-panties-for)! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news!  
> The next chapter is going to take a bit longer than usual. I have a big trade show next week for work so I won't be very active online. 
> 
> Good news!  
> I quit my job, so I will hopefully be much more productive once the trade show is finished :) 
> 
> Bad news!  
> I quit my job, so I won't be commissioning any new artwork :( I have a few in the works so there will still be some but I might not complete my goal to have one for every single chapter. I'll see what I can manage!


	10. There Goes The Neighborhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

As usual, Steve is greeted at the gate (and reception, and the elevator, and main entry to the J-5 offices,) with perfect, snappy salutes. He returns them perfectly, as usual, but doesn’t doesn’t have to rely on practiced small talk and plastic smiles to show off how content he is. He just _is._

Steve attacks his to-do list with energy he hasn’t felt since his last combat deployment, steamrolling through his briefings and scheduled projects. He’s able to bang out an updated Powerpoint presentation for the VA finance committee for participation in his initiative and submit it to Major Wilson before lunch, before he finally takes a break in Operation Kick Monday’s Ass to see what Bucky’s been up to on Here Kitty.

Steve retraces the little paw prints on the map back throughout the morning, watching them circle the building several times right after he had left for work. Bucky doing his daily sweep. It looks like he had paused by the rooftop pool for a while before heading back down, but Steve doubts he had gone for a swim. Probably just taking in the view of the city from the high vantage point before completing his new ritual and heading back down.

Bucky’s patrols are not something they’ve talked about directly, but Steve let him know that he’s been officially registered as a tenant with the homeowner's association. As long as he has his collar, he can shop at the cafes and use the other facilities like the gym or the pool. He had started to suggest Bucky take a walk around the neighborhood if he felt cooped up, but hadn’t pushed when Bucky nervously looked out of the window and pressed his fangs into his bottom lip.

Either way, Steve hopes Bucky had made use of the spare key Steve had left for him on the kitchen counter, rather than leaving his apartment’s front door unlocked as he prowled the halls. Steve smiles down at the paw prints after seeing them settle in his living room, and he pictures Bucky getting comfortable in his green easy chair, curling that long, spotted tail around the front of his body and cat napping.

“Captain Rogers?” Private Lorraine says again, and Steve jerks his head up when he’s put together that she’s repeated his name several times.

“Yes! Private,” he coughs, lamely covering for his surprise. “What can I do for you?”

“Your fourteen hundred is here,” she says, with something a little extra in her smile.

“Ms. Potts? Already?” Steve looks at his watch. He’d apparently been watching Here Kitty for almost an hour, managing to skip lunch in the process. He quickly shrugs into his jacket, closing all the shiny brass buttons before checking his ridiculous hat hair in the mirror. Hopeless as always.

“You must have had a fun weekend, sir,” Lorraine says, unprompted. “With your cat.”  

Steve glimpses at her briefly before he gives himself one last,  desperate look in the mirror, like the front of his hair that always sticks up would somehow flatten itself modestly. “How’s that, private?”

“You just seem a bit different,” she says, with a smile that brightens her whole face. “Energetic. Recharged. And stop _fiddling_ with it,” she adds, planting her fists on her hips in mock severity. “You’ll only make it worse.”

Steve raises his hands in defeat, then collects his his tablet from his desk. “I want to make a good impression on the CEO of one of the DOD’s leading defense contractors. Besides, I hear Ms. Potts can be a bit of a hardass.”

“She seems charming,” Lorraine argues, and hands him a projector adapter from her uniform’s skirt pocket before he even has to ask. “And more importantly, she’s made statements on social media both as a private citizen and as Stark Industries’ official position, supporting the administration’s renewed efforts in caring for feline combatants. She’s on your side, sir.”

Steve blows out a breath. Pepper Potts is the person who determines if Bucky will get his new arm or not. Steve doesn’t know how to explain that to Private Lorraine without sounding pathetically biased though, so he just asks for a rundown of their latest numbers on the way to the J-5 common meeting room.

“Captain Rogers,” Pepper says, turning to the door when he enters.

“Ms. Potts,” Steve answers, taking her offered hand and giving it one, polite shake. “It’s an honor to meet you. I believe you’ve already met my PA, Private Lorraine?”

“All too briefly,” Pepper says, exchanging a smile with Lorraine before taking the seat that the private points her to. Pepper settles into the high backed chair easily, adjusting the lanyard that displays her guest badge and crossing her long legs. She’s wearing an elegant slate suit, and her hair is long and loosely draped over her narrow shoulders. The girlish dash of freckles across her nose and her disarming smile are completely at odds with what the Captain knows of the ruthless business woman, but he also knows that if she strategically cultivated that image there must be some truth behind it.

“I’m surprised we haven’t met sooner,” she says, taking a sip of water from the glass at hand. “When I heard about your program the last time I was at the White House I was almost insulted you hadn’t reached out to us sooner.”

Steve nods, just as ready to get right to the point. “I appreciate that Major Wilson brought up my program at the time,” he says. “Even though the initiative for it comes from the President’s dedication to feline combatants I—”

“Does it?”

Steve hadn’t expected that, but he smoothly nods. “It’s a personal passion of mine as well, but the program was officially approved and signed off on by the President himself. He’s concerned about the recent rise in feral crime since the base closures in Russia, and feels like it’s our patriotic duty to make sure the felines that served are taken care of.”

Pepper hums, nodding for him to go on, but Steve suspects she might not entirely believe him. Something about her energy throws him off, like she’s almost disappointed that Steve has stuck to his script. Sometimes it’s a breath of fresh air to work with the corporate side of defense; no one within the military would have so boldly challenged the idea that the President’s official message would be nothing but propaganda. Of course that doesn’t make it any less propaganda, and now Steve feels that old, rotten reminder that his job is nothing more than a song and dance for politicians.

Two words, and Pepper Potts already has him rattled. This isn’t going quite the way he had expected.

“Captain, maybe we should go over the projections on our estimated reach for the Stark messaging?” Private Lorraine cuts in, coming to his rescue. “And your can tell Ms. Potts about our model candidate.”

“Of course,” Steve agrees, and connects his tablet to the console in the center of the conference table. The display wall in the conference room blinks to life, his freshly revised Powerpoint presentation launching straight into slideshow mode, polished to perfection.

Steve may be a dancing monkey, but at least his routine is well rehearsed. He’s not sure how Pepper Potts managed to trouble him so much with her simple question, but it’s soon forgotten as they dive into the top down communication strategy, identifying the campaign’s KPIs and potential ROI for Stark Industries’s generous donation.

Pepper doesn’t ask any questions through the proposal, and Steve is worried he’s lost her until he finally gets to the segment detailing his model candidate.

Steve highlights the bravery, dedication and loyalty of his own former SCF, then—as cooly as he can manage—describes his missing arm using information he pulled from the CFC’s medical records as the ideal match for the full mobile replacement that the company has been promoting as its latest advancement.

“What’s his name?” Pepper asks, looking down at her notes.

“His—” Steve stops himself. “Um, it’s Bucky, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Pepper,” she says, glancing up with a smile. “How did you decide on Bucky, Captain Rogers?”

Steve sees Private Lorraine give him an odd look, and he gets the sense that Pepper wants to hear something other than what he’s already said about how Bucky is a model candidate for the program.

“It’s just, I had my team do its own research,” she starts. “And I noticed that there were a number of candidates the CFC proposed. Bucky wasn’t on their list. He also seems to have a criminal record, quite a bit longer than most of their selections.”

Oh, fuck. “I see,” Steve admits. “You’re correct, Bucky wasn’t part of the CFC’s initial pull. I found him myself when I visited the facility, and as I mentioned before I had prior service with him so I knew about his accomplishments as a Soldier Companion Feline. He assisted on the raid that brought down Arnim Zola,” Steve adds, bringing out the big guns. “He’s a war hero.”

“So you were playing favorites?” Pepper says, her tone cool but without malice.

Steve swallows. Does he go for honesty? Or stick to the script as the dancing monkey? “Bucky saved my life when we served together, more than once. I know he looks… rough. On paper. But he’s brave, loyal and one of the smartest soldiers I’ve ever served with—and that goes for the human ones as well.” Steve raises his chin. Letting out a trickle of honesty feels so good that he no longer wants to stop it, and it rushes out of him like a river. “He’s also charming, with a sarcastic sense of humor, and has the prettiest markings I’ve ever seen. He’s going to look so goddamn good on camera, the press will eat it up. So yes, I’m playing favorites, but he also deserves this _and_ he’s the perfect candidate.”

Pepper’s eyebrows go up, and she remains motionless for a moment. Steve clears his throat and sits back down. He hadn’t even noticed that he had stood up from his chair. Then he catches sight of Private Lorraine, who is giving him double thumbs-up and has the largest, toothiest grin plastered across her face. Pepper follows Steve’s gaze back to the Private who instantly drops her grin in favor of a demure smile, and brushes the back of her neck with her delicate fingers.

“Okay, Captain Rogers,” Pepper says. “Let’s schedule a surgery.”

* * *

Bucky reaches the rooftop pool, the last stop on his security sweep of the building, and sits down heavily on a bamboo bench next to the cold fire pit. The day is going by so slowly he wants to scream.

Rogers said he wouldn’t get home until close to 1830, or even 1700 depending on traffic, and it’s not even noon yet. After Bucky’s Sunday adventure with the refrigerator, Rogers prepacked a lunch for him in a glass dish, and showed Bucky how to mix  protein shakes in an appliance on the counter. The juicer is so noisy that Bucky has to fold his ears all the way over to avoid being deafened as it pulverizes bananas, egg whites, yogurt and ice with some powder into a frosty, sweet beverage.

It’s not quite as bad as it sounds, which is saying something, considering he’s already had three of them.

It’s October and in Washington DC that apparently means gloomy skies, brisk wind, and the scent of barely withheld rainfall. Bucky wouldn’t think any human would be out in this weather, especially in the pool, but an older man in a swim cap and speedos has been doing laps since Bucky walked out onto the rooftop. He seems wholly occupied in his work out so Bucky ignores him, and listens to the sound of the water while he looks up at the sky. It’s endless up above him, stretching on and on into a horizonless grey beyond.

Just like this damn day.

“Hey, cat,” the man in the pool suddenly barks, and Bucky startles away from feeling sorry for himself. “Fetch me that towel will ya?” Bucky’s not used to being addressed by strangers, who usually seem content to ignore him, so his first instinct is to freeze. “You deaf? It’s cold as balls out there, can you help a fella out?”

Well. The man has a point. It is cold ‘as balls,’ especially to a human.

Bucky spots the man’s towel on a nearby bench, and brings it to the edge of the pool. He passes it to the man, who takes it with one hand before he leverages himself out of the water with a surprisingly nimble hoist. Dripping and nearly naked, the older human still cuts a striking figure when he stands at his full height, towel draped carelessly over his broad shoulders. Despite his age, he’s well muscled, with thighs like tree trunks. He’s even taller than Captain Rogers, and has the same square jaw and thick neck. A ball chain trails water all the way down to a set of glistening dogtags. That explains a lot.

“Didn’t know they let cats up here,” the man grumbles, when he yanks off his swim cap and starts toweling off his face and neck.

“Guess it’s good for you that they do,” Bucky shoots back, then takes a step a deferential step back when the man looks up at him in shock. “Sir.”

The man laughs, one of those old-man laughs that comes out like a wheeze. His breath smells like alcohol. “You serve?” He asks, nodding vaguely at Bucky’s patriotic license.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky answers. Now that the human is speaking to him it’d be rude to just walk away, and since the man is military Bucky isn’t even sure he can without being dismissed. The captain had told him he’s no longer in the military, but Bucky suspects he’s not exactly a civilian either, even though he’s being kept in Rogers’ private home.

“Sakhalin?” The human inquires, rubbing the towel down his hips and stepping into a pair of rubber sandals.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky repeats, and now he’s even more confused. Does this man work with Captain Rogers? He tries to scent the air around him, but at the moment all that comes off the human is chlorine.

“Guess it’s not so cold for you, in comparison,” the man said with a nasty grin, and shrugs into a plush white bathrobe.

“No, sir,” Bucky admits, watching the man’s breath come out in a fog in front of his face. “Not so much.”

“Well. Keep out of trouble,” the man says with a dismissive shrug, and walks away. Bucky watches him head into the common penthouse lounge, where he takes the elevator further up, away from the mid-level rooftop to the penthouses above.

The whole exchange is so bizarre that Bucky immediately heads down after the man is gone, taking the stairs in quick, clumsy leaps back to the fifth floor. He makes sure to lock the Captain’s front door behind him when he finally makes it inside.

Bucky curls up on the chair in the living room after that, determined to watch the front door until the captain comes home.

* * *

Steve tries to calm his restless knee from bouncing as he waits at the stoplight, two blocks away from his building. Instead he winds up drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel, even though he’s listening to news radio, without any kind of beat.

The meeting with Ms. Potts—Pepper—went well enough despite the awkward start, and the rest of the day had flown past while he agonized over something she had said near the end. The prosthetic is apparently already made, so the next step is the complex surgery to implant the artificial nerve couplings to Bucky’s spine and graft the metal structure onto Bucky’s shoulder that the robotic prosthetic mounts on top of. All this has to be done at Stark Industries’ advanced research facility.

In New York. On _Wednesday._

As Pepper methodically broke down the logistics for the surgery, something strikes Steve hard, like a landmine, when he remembers what Dr. Lukin had said in the Red Room. Bucky had been given a ‘choice.’ Not just to volunteer for euthanasia, but to either go to the Red Room, or to “the labs.”

Even after hours of honest conversation, Steve hadn’t pressed Bucky on what happened to him in the CFC, or how he even got to Washington DC from New York. Bucky had only been liberated days ago, and given a whole new life with new possibilities to consider for himself and his future. The last thing Steve wanted to do was to drag him back into the most painful moment of his life, to make a choice that would mean the difference between living like a cripple forever, or getting cut into by strangers to install permanent implants he hadn’t even asked for.

Could Steve even trust that Bucky would give an honest answer instead of the one he thinks Steve wants to hear?

Steve’s easy week, getting to know Bucky again on Bucky’s own terms, seems to already be at an end.

His thoughts are interrupted by a sudden news bulletin, abruptly ending whatever show he hadn’t been paying attention to.

“Fuck.”

* * *

Bucky is so bored, he thinks he might actually die.

Somewhere along the line, when he realizes he enjoys torture, he had decided to start watching the stupid cop show with the stupid feline partner whose stupid name turns out to be Spanky. He realizes _Bucky_ is a stereotypically feline name, but _Spanky?_ What the fuck.

Spanky’s sole responsibility on the show is to get into trouble, usually because he can’t resist his basic feline instincts. He’s immediately distracted by queens sauntering down the street (gross), betrays his human partner in exchange for a raw fish (grosser), and abandons his post on stake outs in favor of cat naps (ugh). Spanky’s human partner (Chris? Humans on TV always seem to be named Chris) repeatedly has to get him out of trouble, but at the end of each episode, when the real danger has already passed, Spanky proves his value to the team (and to the detective’s heart) by doing something brave or sentimental.

Four episodes in of _Feline-1-1_ and Bucky notices that the feline actor who plays Spanky is named Spanky in real life, so he’s credited ‘as himself.’ Bucky watches the credits roll upside down, his legs dangling off the back of the sofa, resisting the urge to barf—and not just because he’s on his fifth protein shake. He doubts Spanky is playing himself when he fucking _meows_ at Detective Chris. Bucky’s never heard a humanoid feline meow in his entire life.

Bucky lets his hips fall over, then flops upright, tossing his arm over the cushions in order to get a look at the clock above the stove. It’s already 18:30 so Rogers should be home any minute. Bucky yawns before he can help it, and rests his chin on his arm, so that he can sit and stare at the front door with vigilance and pout at the same time.

The opening theme of the next _Feline-1-1_ episode is suddenly interrupted, the catchy tune cut short by some exasperated narrator, and Bucky glances away from the door when he realizes what the breaking news coverage is about. He turns back around slowly, attention undivided, as a reporter on the scene of some gathering in New York disparages the violent actions of the mislead humanoid felines following ‘the anonymous activist leader,’ Black Panther.

That fucking guy.

A feral can’t go far in New York without hearing about the self proclaimed Prince of Wakanda (whatever that means), but Bucky has never seen Black Panther front and center like this at a public demonstration. The big male has always been the sort of cat that attracts strays; the kind of ferals who were dumped when they were young, grew up without much purpose in their usually short, miserable lives. His messages about the mythical feline empire seemed to light a fire in the uneducated, unlicensed cat population, making them think there’s some life for them outside of the human world. Bucky had never met him in person, but some of the others at the tenement would talk about him like he is some kind of spiritual leader, like the human’s Gandhi or Dalai Lama.

Except of course, the Black Panther is ultimately a fraud. He’s just another feral like the rest of them, except worse, because he acts like he isn’t, and that the laws controlling ferals don’t apply to him or his followers.

As the news segment goes on, an aerial camera makes a sweep of downtown Manhattan, and Bucky swallows when the cameras pan and pan and pan. There are more cats there than Bucky has ever seen gathered in one place, and right in the midst of their demonstration is the Black Panther, standing on top of a car with a bullhorn.

Apparently, cats are protesting.

The reporter’s voice goes high with panic, the camera jerks back, and suddenly the news crew is running through the crowd. Bucky sits on his toes, so shocked he barely hears the captain walk through the front door.

Apparently, cats are _rioting._

* * *

Steve aborts his plan almost immediately when he walks in and finds Bucky riveted by the television. Since he parked his car in the building garage he had received seventeen texts from colleagues about the cat riot kicking off in New York, and isn’t surprised that the news reports have taken over regularly scheduled TV. Normally, Steve can’t wait to shed his uniform when he comes home, open a beer and stop thinking about his day. As the scene unfolds on the news, Steve approaches the couch without even taking off his service cap, and alternates between staring at the television and glancing down to check on Bucky.

“Hey, Buck,” he manages to say.

“Welcome home, sir,” Bucky says, and looks up suddenly. He isn’t exactly surprised by Steve’s appearance, just maybe a little surprised he hadn’t been paying him as much attention as the news.

“Pretty shocking stuff, huh?”

“Hm,” Bucky answers, then gets up as if he has no interest in it at all anymore. “I met one of your neighbors today. Are the other humans in this building my superiors? Like on base? I wasn’t sure what to do when he asked me for something.”

“One of my—” Steve shakes his head. He really hadn’t bothered to get to know most of the neighbors in this building since he moved in. He does know a few of them keep cats, mostly in the upper levels, and he’d be pissed if one of their keepers decided they could take advantage of Bucky just because they have their own pets to boss around. “No, absolutely not. You don’t owe them anything, Bucky. If they have a problem with it you can tell them to take it up with me. But what do you think about what’s happening in New York?”

Bucky does that lopsided shrug of his, since most of his left shoulder is missing. “Nothing to do with me.”

“You might have been there, if you were still in New York.”

“I’m not though,” he says, and his ears make the slightest flick back before he fixes them straight ahead again. “Even if I was, I’d stay far away from that.”

“Would you,” Steve quietly says, sinking into the couch. Bucky is still standing, and his tail swings side to side even as the rest of him stays still, unwilling to answer Steve’s suggestion. A garbage can gets thrown through a storefront window and Steve glances back at the TV.

“I would,” Bucky insists. “Bunch of losers and strays. They don’t have any common sense. An SCF wouldn’t get caught dead with Panther because we know better. Any second now Feline Control is going to arrest every single one of them. Panther never seems to get caught up in the same sweeps with his idiot followers.”

Well. That’s really going to fuck up Coulson’s theory about the Panther recruiting from the discharged SCFs returning from Russia. Something about that makes Steve feel smug, and he finally starts to undo the buttons on his jacket with a selfish grin. It’s stupid. If he has to eventually talk Bucky into becoming an asset for SHIELD that certainly won’t help any, but he just likes the idea of an intelligence director being wrong.

His schadenfreude is immediately extinguished when the news anchor reconnects with the reporter, and the camera crew captures the riot police arriving. The cats are angry, hurling insults with teeth bared and maneuvering between standing upright and prowling on all fours. Steve’s heart sinks; things will go quickly downhill from here.

They both watch in silence as the riot is quickly broken up by high powered hoses, Bucky standing by the arm of the couch and Steve only halfway out of his jacket. The newscasters praise the quick thinking of the police, decry the violence of the “rabid animals”, and continue to focus on scenes of property damage while cats are quickly rounded up and shuffled into large CFC transport wagons.

“See?” Bucky hisses. “Idiots.”

Steve flinches when he sees a handcuffed cat get struck in the side of the head by a police officer’s baton and turns off the TV. “Enough of that,” he says softly, and tries to shake off the trancelike focus he had on the broadcast. He hadn’t even intended to watch it after Bucky seemed to lose interest, but somehow had gotten sucked in. “I’m going to get changed before I make— Oh,” Steve snaps his fingers, finally remembering now that he’s free of the brutality of the riot coverage. “I’ve got a gift for you.”

He rifles through the pockets on his discarded jacket and pulls out a compact box, handing it over to Bucky who looks up in surprise. “A phone, sir?” Bucky says, holding the box carefully in his one hand, turning it over like he’s close to handing it right back. “I… this is for me?”

“I picked it up at the Pentagon BX,” Steve says, trying not to feel self conscious about it. It’s just an iPhone, not even one of the fancy big ones. “I hope you don’t mind that I set it up for you. The number and screen lock code is on the back. You can also give it your thumb print so you don’t have to type it in every time. I put my number in it for you already. Oh, and Private Lorraine’s in case you need to reach me when I’m in a no camera zone—er, when I can’t use my cell. Happens a lot at the Pentagon.”

Bucky holds the box to his chest and doesn’t look up. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve smiles. Adding a second line to his own plan doesn’t cost much, so he wouldn’t even bother expensing it. He never installed a landline, and doesn’t think Bucky would answer it anyway if he ever called the house. Steve doesn’t like the idea of not being able to reach him during the day, with Bucky trapped in his apartment building, bored and getting harassed by Steve’s nosy neighbors.

Steve quickly changes in his bedroom, then comes back wearing his soft, faded jeans and even softer faded socks. When he passes through on his way to the kitchen he catches Bucky sitting cross-legged on the living room chair, tongue sticking between his fangs and tail thumping irritably as he works his fingers under the tight, fitted lid of the iPhone box.

“Let me help—” Steve starts, and Bucky shakes his head, ears going flat.

“I got it, sir,” he says with a grunt, and gives the box a shake while holding it by the lid. The bottom of the box inches out from under the top, and Steve takes only one step forward before he remembers how proud Bucky had been with the button on his pants. Having only one arm clearly slows Bucky down, but he seems to get there, in his own time.

That reminds Steve that he’s going to have to bring up the prosthetic implant, sooner or later. “Hey, Buck,” he starts, as Bucky continues to fiddle with the phone lid. “This might not be the best time, given what’s going on in New York right now, but do you remember when I told you that we’re planning on getting a prosthetic arm for you?”

Bucky freezes, then looks up from the puzzle box with wide eyes as his ears lock forward. “Right. Yes, sir, I do.”

“I met with the CEO of Stark Industries today,” he carefully starts casually going about the process of getting dinner started. “She gave me some stuff you can look over about the robotic arm they made for you. I guess before we move forward though, you should know that this kind of arm requires,” Steve pauses when he pulls out his big pasta pot, and tries not to feel self conscious under Bucky’s intense stare. “Well, it requires a really sophisticated permanent graft onto your body.”

“Surgery?” Bucky immediately asks.

“Yeah,” Steve admits. He can’t quite tell how worried Bucky might be from his expression, but he doesn’t want to back down or sugar coat it. “Pretty intense surgery actually. The arm is incredible, Buck. Something right out of a scifi movie. But it’s only so responsive to your nerve impulses because of the neural interface they need to implant on your,” Steve swallows. “On your spine.”

Bucky nods quickly, definitely nervous. He puts the phone box down next to his folded knee, and the lid which he had managed to get partway off slides all the way back down. “I understand,” he says, his voice gone quiet.

Steve’s already set the pot of water to boil on the stove and has the fresh chicken breast out on the cutting board. Instead of cutting it into strips and tossing it in the saute pan, Steve leans over the breakfast bar. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. You know that, right?”

Bucky looks up and his eyes are huge, his tail coiled up in his lap. Shit. There’s no way he’ll admit that he doesn’t want to do it.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Steve repeats. “Okay, as in you know you can say no? Or okay, as in you want to do it?”

Bucky puts his fangs into his bottom lip before he looks back up. “Okay, as in... can I think about it?”

Steve blinks. “Yes! Absolutely! That’s good, Buck. Definitely take your time to think about it. I’ll give you all the stuff Ms. Potts went over with me today so you know what to expect. I can help you put together questions for her too.” Steve keeps bustling around why he speaks, pulling out the vegetables and tossing the pasta in the boiling water. “Um. We really only have a day to decide actually, since we have to be in New York for the surgery on Wednesday if you want to go through with it. But if you’re not one hundred percent sure, we’ll skip it. Promise.”

Bucky nods and furtively picks up the iPhone box to try again, slower this time, like his earlier enthusiasm has been slightly diminished after his first attempt failed. Bucky really is an amazing person, Steve thinks, stealing glances over to the chair as he adds the alfredo sauce to the chicken. Bucky had gone through hell after leaving the Army, had been too scared to come out of the bathroom only days before, and now he’s already flexing his agency. Steve lets himself feel that pride, knowing he’s barely done anything at all and yet Bucky is already landing on his feet.

Bucky shouts with victory, holding up the glossy black cell phone. Instead of the shy retraction of his victory like he had with his jeans button, he looks to Steve and grins wide enough to show all his teeth, tail wagging behind him. “Got it, sir!”

Steve’s heart thumps so hard inside his chest, he feels like he’s been slapped on the back.

Okay.

* * *

 

[Sulasaferoom](http://sulasaferoom.tumblr.com/post/157718962646/another-catbucky-for-resinonao3-and-her-amazing) did this amazing illustration of Bucky watching _Feline-1-1!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So even though I worked to death this week preparing for a tradeshow I managed to bang out a chapter?! How?! I don't know. But I'm off to the show tomorrow so the next one will be after March 3rd. ALSO, since all the illustrations I have on hand are illustrating specific scenes in future chapters, Sulasaferoom wound up drawing an amazing Bucky just for this chapter!!! I am SO GRATEFUL for her generous contribution! So fun!!


	11. What Happens at Stark Industries…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

“If I do it, I won’t have an armpit.”

Steve studies Bucky’s frown for a moment, then looks back down at the display on screen. Bucky is right. The surgery would remove his existing armpit on his left side, replacing it with the mount for the prosthetic. It’s Tuesday afternoon, only hours before Bucky has to make his decision, and they are reviewing the entire brief for a third time side by side, on Steve’s couch. Steve stayed home from work with the excuse that he has to collect Bucky for the ride. Apparently, Pepper is happy to bring them back to New York on the Stark Industries private helicopter but they have to leave that afternoon.

“I can add that to the list of questions in my email to Pepper,” Steve says, going back to his tablet where he’s already started his draft. The list already has over a dozen tidy bullet points, mostly questions about how the surgery team adjusted the spinal implants for a feline vertebrae. Bucky had raised most of his concerns while holding his own tail in his hand, nervously flexing his grip in the fur as Steve goes back and forth between his laptop and his tablet.

Bucky looks at his ruined shoulder, frowning as if he’s contemplating whether or not he’ll actually miss having an armpit there. Steve wants to make a joke about saving money on deodorant, but Bucky genuinely seems to be losing the fight with his nerves so Steve nods back to the laptop.  “Did you check back on the surgery brief? There’s a lot of complex steps in that one section about the, er, bone removal. Maybe they list removing the glands there and possible side effects.”

Bucky hums, and his right hand crosses over his chest to touch the edges of his left underarm. He’s wearing a dark red henley, with the left sleeve pinned up to stop it from dangling, and his fingers only brush the area through the soft cotton. “It’s never been the same after the fight anyway,” he says dismissively, then glares down at the screen. “Too much scarring.”

 _The fight?_ Steve had expected that going over Bucky’s surgery would bring up the topic of how he lost the arm in the first place, but Bucky said that so casually it sounds like he thinks Steve already knows.

Maybe Bucky assumes so since Steve has his military and CFC files?

Should he just ask? Fuck.

“You can ask me, if you want to sir,” Bucky says quietly. Steve finally blinks, and it occurs to him that he had just been staring at the tablet screen since Bucky had last spoken. There’s a fresh bullet point sitting there on his list, the cursor blinking at him beside it, waiting for him to ask Pepper about Bucky’s poor armpit.

Bucky’s knees are drawn up to his chest, his tail wrapped over the top of his sock feet. The silence stretches on, and it seems absurd not to just come out and ask now that Bucky’s literally given him permission. The cat has always been able to see right through him. “You, uh,” Steve weakly starts, then clears his throat. “You got in a fight?”

“The stairs lasted forever,” Bucky says, and Steve feels the temperature in the room drop by at least fifteen degrees. He knows exactly what stairs Bucky is talking about. “They just kept going and going, and I was so tired already. There was another door at the top, old and rusted like the metal grate that I pried open to get us through the pipe.”

Steve shivers and puts his tablet down so that he can lean back into the cushions. He crosses his arms and feels the gooseflesh there and swallows the fear threatening to crawl up from his throat. 

“It was easy enough to break the metal hinges off. It was so old and corroded it practically fell open,” Bucky winces. “Right into the RNS kennel.”

“Oh, shit.” During the debrief, Steve had learned that there had been a number of RNS felines in the theater that evening. He knew most of them were KIA, like the one Bucky fought right in front of him. The rest had been shot on site after the docks had been secured and the remaining RNS terrorists were captured.

“They had been listening to the fighting, but were locked in. Some kind of reserve team, kept in a large cell. They were just left there. I think the RNS forgot about them when we took over the docks. I uh,” Bucky’s smile was grim, and a little embarrassed and he chuckles. “I said, _preevyet!_ But they still tried kick my ass.”

Steve rubbed his arms through his shirt. Had it really gotten so cold just now? Is his heater broken? “So is that… Is… is that how…?”

Bucky shakes his head and drops his feet off the couch to lean forward, like he’s drawn back into working on the laptop, but he focuses somewhere in the middle distance, remembering instead. “They were unarmed. I had my knives. I wasn’t wearing my body armor though, and they put a pretty good fight. Strike came through and ended it. I don’t blame them for not recognizing me.”

Steve’s hands go cold as Bucky continues, tail motionless between them.

“When I saw Brubaker and Ramirez I knew how they’d take care of a pack of caged cats. They tossed a grenade right between the bars and kept going, probably clearing the building. I tried to make it back down the stairs, use the metal door as a blast shield. Mostly made it. None of the other cats even came close.”

“You lost your arm to friendly fire.” Steve says dully. He remembers seeing Ramirez and Brubaker at the parade ground, cheering from the sidelines while the cats played baseball. By the time the cats started giving up their game to exhaustion Ramirez himself had insisted Bucky was the MVP. He had looked so proud for rooting for the winning team. “You lost your arm to friendly fire from the Strike team.”

“I don’t blame them,” Bucky says again. “Luckily the blast also broke open the cell, so I was able to get out after the dust settled. I think my arm was mostly attached by then? It’s a little hazy. I just remember there being so much snow.” Bucky looks up suddenly, like there might be flakes drifting down from the ceiling. He inhales through his nose and closes his eyes. “I think it was a couple of civilians that wound up helping us get back to base, but I can’t be sure. I wouldn’t leave until they got you too, but when they pulled you out I was sure you had died down there. You didn’t move, the whole ride back.”

“I passed out. Probably not long after you left,” Steve says, and his voice sounds far away in his own ears. He swallows, hoping to make them pop. “I woke up in the hospital on base. They told me you had been sent back to New York already.”

“The human doctor really did try to save my arm,” Bucky says, his tone brightening just enough to pull Steve’s attention back into the apartment. Somewhere along the line he had started smelling herring and snow, and shivers again when he realizes it couldn’t possibly be ten below in his apartment. “She really did. I think the other doctors thought it’d be better to let me die. The feline med tech _certainly_ did, but he’s always been an asshole.” Bucky chuckles, and gives Steve a smile.

Fuck. Bucky is trying to make _him_ feel better.

“Fuck,” Steve growls, and has to put his tablet down before he snaps it in half. “I can’t even begin to apologize for—”

“Please don’t, sir,” Bucky says firmly, and Steve frowns at him, ready to argue exactly how big of an apology the United States owes him. “I really don’t want an apology. I did it because I was a soldier. I was proud to be your hunter. Proud to serve. If I had to do it all over again, still knowing the outcome, I wouldn’t change a thing. I said I was going to get you out of that fucking hole. As far as I’m concerned, my mission was accomplished. I don’t blame the Army or Strike for what happened to me after.”

Steve plants his face in his palms. Inhales. Exhales. This is so fucked up. “Okay,” is all he manages to say, before he gets up and heads into the kitchen for a drink, leaving Bucky in the living room.

Bucky’s strength, his conviction, is more than Steve deserves. It’s certainly more than the fucking Army deserves. He doesn’t want to take it from him, so he doesn’t say what he’s thinking. Ramirez and Brubaker should have _easily_ recognized a member of their own team. Another member of Operation Lemurian Star. Another fucking _American._ Not to mention, throwing a grenade into a group of caged felines, even enemy combatants, should be considered a war crime.

Steve’s mind chases these thoughts in circles as he stands at his kitchen counter, a glass of whiskey in his hand, too furious to even throw it back.

“Captain Rogers,” Bucky says, and Steve startles at the nearness of his voice. Somewhere along the line Bucky had walked over, and leans over the breakfast bar on his one elbow. His expression is soft, still seeing straight through him. “I don’t blame you, either.”

Steve puts the glass down, staring hard at the amber liquid. He wants to grab Bucky by his ruined shoulders and shake him. Doesn’t he understand? Steve doesn’t deserve any of this, this… _forgiveness._

“Thank you,” he says instead, empties the whiskey out in the sink and leaves the tumbler on the counter. “I’m sorry anyways.”

“I know.” Bucky flashes him a grin, showing his sharp teeth. “If you still feel so bad about it you can shine my new arm, once I get it attached.”

Steve laughs, unable to stand up against Bucky’s infectious cockiness. He laughs again when Bucky joins in, and the rest of his body warms up from the inside out. It’s almost like he had taken a shot of that alcohol after all, only the sensation is different from that detached substitute for joy. It’s more like the giddy feeling from when they survived the drop into the heat sink on Sakhalin. Like they are the only two people on the planet who are in on a terrible joke.

Steve finally shakes off his maudlin attitude, and figures it’s time to start packing. Apparently Bucky had made his decision and it’s time to head to New York.

* * *

If there had been one single phrase used the most often to describe Howard Stark in the hundreds of interviews, articles and exposes around his remarkable life, it would have been _over the top._ Maybe even, _way_ over the top.

The man had lived like a throwback to a bygone era of American ingenuity and entrepreneurship, developing his company from the ground up and quickly becoming a world leader in aerospace engineering, robotics, defense technology, and simulation. Unfortunately for his stockholders, board members and his wife, he had also been a leader in a playboy lifestyle that could put the most out of control celebrity to shame.

Literally, his lifestyle was chronicled in a monthly feature in Playboy magazine.

The private helicopter was no exception to the man’s legacy but surprisingly, Bucky fucking loves it. The smooth leather lounge chairs, the dark stained walnut consoles, carbon fiber accents and all the gadgets in between. “Captain, this dispenses vodka,” he says, watching the crystal clear liquid pour into a Stuben tumbler with wide eyes. “ _Vodka.”_

“I realize,” Steve says with as much disinterest as he can muster, before he checks his watch again. Bucky has managed to find all the interesting little features in the small cabin, poking his nose into every console and pushing every button, unphased by the jerks and sudden drops from turbulence.

Helicopter rides are so much rougher than Steve remembers.

“I just got word from the pilot that we’ve got urban airspace clearance,” Pepper says, glancing up from her tablet and taking out one of her earbuds. She’s facing Bucky and Steve on a plush leather sofa, her stocking wrapped feet tucked up under her. Her pumps had been abandoned on the cabin floor as soon as they took off from a private airfield outside of the city. “It should just be another fifteen minutes or so.”

It’s about time. Steve sighs, feeling more relief than he expected.

“Captain,” Bucky says again, after slotting the glass under the next spout on the mini bar and pushing on the polished, wooden lever. “This one has sake. And it’s _warm!_ Captain, aren’t you going to try—”

“No,” Steve bites off. “And stop wasting Pepper’s drinks. Besides, it’s only four o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, chastened. He puts the crystal tumbler back into deep set cup holder next to the three others and sits back down properly in his seat. “...That didn’t stop you on Sunday.”

Pepper’s laugh chimes high and fast, like a bell, before she covers her mouth and chuckles more politely. Steve is too stunned to defend himself, and bypasses being embarrassed for being utterly mortified. “Busted,” Pepper says, and adds a good natured wink. “We all have our vices,” she diplomatically continues, and flips her tablet around. Steve feels a little better when he sees her screen, where an obnoxiously pink album is splayed across her media player, a feline dressed in ruffles posed coquettishly on a pile of stuffed cats. “Mine is kitty pop.”

“Oh, man,” Steve laughs. Bad taste in music is nothing like alcoholism, but Pepper is showing kindness in acting like it is and Steve is happy to play along. “You should really be ashamed of yourself.”

Pepper laughs easily, unselfconscious this time now that the attention is on her instead of her guest. “I can’t resist. I grew up on Hikaru Sunshine and somehow never shook it.”

Feline idols are practically worshipped in Japan, celebrity vocalists with equally huge followings in the States if the feline happens to be American. Their music is all chip-tuned, over-processed garbage and the cats, always young females, are dressed up in gaudy outfits, emulated by their rabid fans. There’s a lot of shared culture between the US and Japan, especially in the entertainment industry, resulting in deep, meaningful pieces of art that tend to highlight elements of the historical friendship between the two nations ever since they became allies in World War II.

Kitty pop is definitely _not_ one of those.

Steve is just about to comment on how one needs day drinking if that’s the sort of music they listen to, but Bucky suddenly speaks up in a quiet voice, like he hopes neither of them will actually hear him. “I heard that in Japan, cats are allowed to own property,” he says. “Because Neko Yuki-chan got so famous she was able to have the laws changed, so she could buy a flat for herself.”

Pepper’s eyebrows go up and Steve suddenly doesn’t know what to say when Bucky looks expectantly between them, waiting for an answer. “They can’t,” Pepper finally says, then smiles softly when Bucky’s ears droop. “They can hold leases though. Tony rents a villa in Kyoto for that very reason.”

“Tony? Tony Stark?” Bucky’s whole face lights up. “Will he be there?” Bucky jumps to his knees and leans into the window, looking out as if he could see from there. Steve catches Bucky’s tail making quick, excited sweeps from side to side.

Howard Stark’s eccentricities had extended to his cat, adopted from birth by his bored, high society trophy wife. Tony ran notoriously rampant in his keeper’s footsteps, traveling the world with Howard after Maria Stark got bored of him, and suddenly the tabloids had two Starks to follow around.

The term ‘playcat’ was coined, just to describe Tony’s antics.

When Howard died, he made special concessions in his will that Tony would be kept by Stark Industries indefinitely, and that Tony’s allowance would be contingent on the company’s profit margins. Tony wound up with free run of all of the Stark family assets, which essentially made him the richest cat in the world, overnight. It was a scandal when it happened, but people seemed to be mostly used to the idea of the Stark name associated with such absurdity by then.

Steve catches himself frowning when he tries to figure out why the hell a sweet cat like Bucky would be impressed by a frivolous jerk like that, but between that and apparently being a fan of kitty pop idols, Steve doesn’t know Bucky as well has he thought he did. He wonders if Bucky has seen _Feline-1-1_ yet.

“Tony’s definitely going to be there,” Pepper says with a nod. “He wants to meet you, since you’ll be the feline face of Stark sponsored prosthetics for the captain’s SCF program.” Pepper scrunches her nose, like she tasted something bad. “You really have to come up with a good name for it, by the way. Would you like our marketing people to take a look at the program’s brief and come up with a few things?”

“God, no,” Steve immediately declines. “The last round of names was put to a committee voting process that dragged out for weeks. In the end we just wound up scrapping the entire series. I couldn’t even imagine the bureaucracy of introducing a third party into that process.”

Pepper snickers. “Sounds like what I have to go through every time I propose a new acquisition. We always wind up adding ‘Stark’ to the product name, but it still has to go through rounds of board approvals.”

Steve laughs. Suddenly he doesn’t feel like such a fraud, like his job is about lying to the world about a president he hadn’t even voted for. Even Bucky seems to have brightened after his shy moment. It feels like the three of them are just having a casual conversation amongst friends, not a CEO taking advantage of disabled veterans to secure a DOD contract, not a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff who has a problem with day drinking, and not a traumatized cat, slavishly loyal to a country that mutilated him and left him to die in a bureaucratic system designed to fail.

Either that or it’s just true what they say, and misery loves company.

* * *

Bucky doesn’t recognize the kitty pop star on Pepper’s player, but it’s nice to think someone like her is a fan. She’s so normal and polite, and boy does she smell _nice._

All humans have a scent—not just of the soaps and creams they use, but a unique marker they carry all their own that they themselves are unaware of. The captain’s scent is like gun oil, cedar, and something unyielding and persistent, like a flowing river. Major Wilson is spicier, like cinnamon, with something silky underneath, like feathers. Private Lorraine, whose scent had remained on Bucky’s duffel long after she passed it off to Rogers,  is sharp and tangy like citrus, but cold and solid, like thick glass. These are scents that are well known to cats but wind up hard to articulate, since humans don’t have real words for them. If asked, he’d just say that Captain Rogers smells like Captain Rogers, Major Wilson smells like Major Wilson, and Private Lorraine smells like Private Lorraine.

Pepper Potts on the other hand, smells like sunshine. Dry. Soft. Warm. Bucky _likes_ Pepper.

Unfortunately, as it turns out, Bucky _hates_ Tony Stark.

The cat greets them as soon as they land on the helicopter pad, right above the building’s logo that spells out _Stark_ in giant, illuminated letters. His dark hair is clearly deliberately tousled, in the sort of way that likely took a team of people to perfect the nonchalance he had demanded. He also wears facial hair, like a human, only it looks like it had been edged with a ruler. His ears and tail are a cascade of red and gold tones, in a perfect sepia fade. The coloring is exotic, like Bucky’s, only it’s also silky and flawless from a life of pampering and expensive fur oil. Tony’s collar is plated in what Bucky suspects is actual gold, and his license tag is backlit and pulsing, like a heartbeat.

Really, Bucky should have realized that it’d end badly, but he’s still too excited to be on top of Stark fucking Tower to really worry about how rude he is (“got a phone?”) or how nosy he is (“oh, it’s an iPhone, that’s cute”) or how pushy he is (“here, I just put my number in it,”) or how dismissive he is (“don’t worry about the humans, they can take care of themselves,”) when Steve and Pepper get shuffled off to some separate offices for official business.

Before he knows it, Bucky is dragged (Tony _dares_ to give Bucky’s tail a little tug to pull him in the right direction) to what he could only describe as a playroom-slash-lounge. Bucky follows carefully out of the elevator, catching only Tony and Pepper’s scent on the air as he walks into the room with probably the best view in Manhattan. Floor to ceiling windows open up on an infinity pool, which is amazing enough, but the inside is even more stunning. The walls are lined with a gas fire feature, the furniture is sleek and modern, and everything is glistening chrome or polished granite. Just up a few steps is a fully stocked bar, and in the center of the room is a round table stacked with all sorts of electronics and plexi AR displays.

Tony flings himself down on a patent leather ottoman next to the table and blurts out, “Be honest with me, is that idiot human your actual keeper? Or are they stringing you along like a sucker?”

Bucky is so shocked he isn’t even mad at first, just standing in a room surrounded by expensive electronics and plush furniture with his mouth hanging open like an idiot. Then Tony raises his dark eyebrows up expectantly, waiting for an answer, so Bucky bares all his teeth and lays back his ears. “Captain Rogers is _not_ an idiot human,” he snarls, daring Tony Stark to argue with him.

Tony rolls his eyes and makes a rude sound with his lips. “Oh please, you can drop the act. This room isn’t under any surveillance.”

“It’s not an act!”

Tony hops to the edge of the ottoman and gives an exaggerated salute, mocking him. “Yes, sir! No, sir! Thank you very much, sir!” His tail swings wide, back and forth like a pendulum as he makes fun of Bucky in a high voice. “That tacky license you’re wearing is clearly not a military dog tag so someone’s full of shit and I have a feeling it’s the human because it’s _always_ the human. You know that once they put humpty dumpty back together again, they don’t usually bother putting him back on the wall.”

“You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about, housecat,” Bucky insists. Truthfully, he has no idea what Tony is talking about either, but he’s too pissed to care. “Captain Rogers saved my life.”

Tony groans and drags himself up, like it’s the hardest thing in the world to hold this conversation— as if anyone fucking asked him to. He leans against a table and picks up something that looks like a bright purple rubber band with a little button in the middle of it. “Did he save your life to actually save it? Or did he just help you when he needed to, in order to save his own? Keeping his equipment in good working order?”

“I was in the Red Room,” Bucky hisses, taking a step forward, leading with his chest right into Tony’s personal space. Tony’s ears stay up but he tucks in his chin, instinctively showing the top of his head to Bucky when he backs into the table behind him and his mouth finally snaps shut. “I was in the _fucking_ Red Room, and the captain had me pulled out days before I was scheduled to be euthanized.”

“Ah,” Stark says, and clears his throat. He nods once in understanding, but doesn’t quite back down. “That explains why the Joint Chiefs called Pepper in the middle of the night. Well, I’m nothing if not humble, so I’ll accept that I was wrong about your precious Cap for now.”

“Captain _Rogers.”_

“Whatever.” Tony sneaks out from between Bucky and the table, then straightens up when he has some space. “The point is, if you need to speak freely about what you’re doing here, you can.”

Bucky doesn’t follow, figuring there’s no need to throw his physical dominance around any further. What would the consequences even be if he got into a fight with the richest cat in the world? And what the fuck does Tony expect Bucky to say to him in confidence? This cat doesn’t seem like he could keep his mouth shut if his life depended on it. Maybe he should just leave, and wait for Captain Rogers back in the rooftop suite they entered the building from.

“So!” Tony said, as if on cue. He steps away from the table and skips up the steps to the bar. Bucky can hear the bottles clinking as he continues. “You give any thought to what you’re going to do once you have two arms again?”

“Not fall on my face when I try to quad,” Bucky snorts.

“Hm,” Tony says, glancing around innocently, and Bucky’s ears twitch as the sound of ice clinks against glass, one cube at a time. “Want to see it?”

“See what?” Bucky is distracted by who Tony is fixing the drink for.

“The arm. _Your_ arm. It’s in the test lab directly below us.”

“I don’t think we’re allowed,” Bucky replies, and glances at the elevator door. Surely Captain Rogers would be worried if he came back and Tony and him were gone. “Are you going to drink that?”

Tony flashes his teeth in a grin and pours what Bucky can clearly smell is an alcoholic drink. “Look whose name is written on the side of the building. We’re allowed.”

“Your keeper’s name,” Bucky reminds him.

“The old man died without any human children,” Tony says, dancing away from the snide remark and out from behind the bar, two drinks in hand. “That makes me the only living Stark on the East Coast. Whose name is it _now?”_

Tony pushes one of the glasses into Bucky’s hand and he looks into the glistening beverage. The scent of caramel and smoke and fresh cut grass, wafts up from the glass, along with the unmistakable sting of alcohol. Bucky looks back up to Tony with a frown. “Are you kidding?”

“Oh please.” Tony clucks his tongue. “Don’t tell me you’ve never…”

“No!” Bucky blurts out. “What the fuck! Have you?”

Tony shrugs, takes a sip, and sighs up at the ceiling, savoring the experience.

“What the fuck!”

“Science, Buck.” Tony tosses his head, beckoning him to follow as he heads to the elevator. “Science! You coming?” Bucky wants to punch him for using the captain’s nickname for him. Bucky wants to punch him for insinuating the captain is using him. Bucky wants to punch him for just handing him a cup of poison and then daring him to drink it with his stupid grin.

Bucky can’t punch Tony Stark though, and he isn’t sure what else to do, so he follows him into the elevator. If the captain needs him he can call, and it’s not like Rogers doesn’t know how to use Here Kitty.

The doors close and Bucky puts the glass to his lips, then glances over to Tony who is doing a great impersonation of a disinterested person. The drink smells like something that comes out of cars. “You sure this is safe?”

Tony snickers. “Fuck no. Drink it anyway,” he adds with a wink. “Think it’s safe for humans?”

“It’s not?” Bucky says with a frown. He knows the basic principal of alcohol, of the culture of drinking it despite the intoxication (or because of it.) He also knows the captain happens to drink way too much of it, oftentimes not sleeping at all unless he consumes a large amount, by himself. He hadn’t considered that it was actually poisonous to humans though, like it is to cats.  

“Aw, listen to you.” Tony snorts. “How long did you say you were you feral for?”

Bucky glares at Tony over the rim of his glass. “I didn’t,” he answers, and takes a tentative sip.

The whiskey tastes like he just put a live grenade in his mouth, which explodes up his sinus resulting in an immediate coughing fit. Bucky spits out whatever he had left in his mouth while he wheezes, trying to catch his breath.

Tony flings an arm around Bucky’s heaving shoulders. “Atta boy,” he says, and Bucky feels what little he swallowed burn all the way down to his gut.

“It’s disgusting!” Bucky shouts. Even his eyes are watering. Is he going blind? That’s a side effect right? He’s pretty sure he’s read that somewhere.

“It’s eight hundred dollars a bottle,” Tony answers as the elevator doors open, and takes a modest sip from his own glass. “Don’t waste it.”

The elevator exits directly into a brightly lit, wide open space that looks a bit more like a machine shop than a research lab. Bucky winces from the lingering flavor of the whiskey in his nostrils and follows Tony inside.

“Ignore most of what you see in here, all super secret squirrel government stuff,” Tony carelessly explains, waving his hand over his head to dismiss the oversized machinery, half formed components and rows upon rows of black tactical lockboxes. “It’s all the boring stuff anyway.”

Bucky spots something that looks like a rocket launcher, but has wings on the side like a drone. _Boring,_ he says.

The shock and horror of the sip of whiskey starts to trickle away as he moves deeper into the workshop, following after Tony as he gets distracted and fiddles with an unfinished component on a tabletop or gathers up loose tools and tosses them elsewhere in what appears to be no particular order. Whomever works here must get pissed at all of Tony’s trifling.

“Do you get to watch them build this stuff?” Bucky says, and spots an odd looking helmet on the desk.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” Tony answers flippantly, as Bucky stops to take a closer look.

He puts his whiskey down on a steel tabletop and picks up two pieces of the black, rigid material. The helmet looks like just a face shell and a back component, held together without any sides, two holes on top like it’s meant for ears. “Is this for cats?”

“What, that? Don’t touch that. It’s. Um. Unstable.”

 _Unstable,_ he says. So Tony Stark is apparently also full of shit, in addition to be kind of a jerk. Bucky puts it down anyway, and continues following the other cat deeper into the lab.

“Ah, here she is,” Tony says, stopping in front of what looks like an aquarium until Bucky gets a better look. “Seventy two interlocking articulate plates, patented micromesh underlayer with titanium alloy pistons. Even the skin of this thing helps with tactile strength without adding to the weight…”

Tony continues to drone on about it, but Bucky already stopped listening. The arm itself is in pieces, all seventy two plates blown away from the central structure, suspended in some kind of gel within a plexiglass tank. It looks like slivers of mercury, reflecting his own face back to him.

It’s beautiful.

“The gel is actually a lubricant, to keep the entire system sterile before it goes onto your body.”

“I thought the mount was the only thing going onto my body,” Bucky says, looking up from the tank.

“Of course,” Tony says. “But they have to integrate flawlessly. The mount implant’s actually over here.” Tony turns to a series of cylindrical tanks, lined up in rows against the wall behind the table with the prosthetic arm. Inside are several, complicated looking components, each one trailing a series of long wires that cascade in segments down the length of the tank, like vertebrae coming off a brain stem. Tony gestures to the one at the end, and Bucky sees the one clearly meant for him. The mount has a shell in the same, reflective metal as the arm, roughly the shape of a left shoulder. A long line of hair-fine wires drift lazily in the fluid from underneath the implant itself.

Bucky swallows, unable to find any words at all.

“Did you look over the surgery brief?” Tony says, taking another sip of his drink. “Each one of those will meet up with a diode, injected along your spinal column after the main housing is in place for the implant. They are programed to seek the diodes out, connect and then fuse to the major nerves along your spine. That way the humans don’t have to cut into your back at all, and risk damaging your spinal sheath.”

“Lucky me,” Bucky says, and he knows his tail is nervously twitching from side to side, his ears flattened by discomfort at the sight of the mechanical sea creature that will become a part of him. The image of Zola’s face cracking apart, with the leathery, putrid appendage striking out from between the split flesh, flashes before Bucky’s eyes and he shudders at the unwanted memory.

Bucky instinctively takes another sip of the cup in his hand and is shocked into the present by the burst of heat on his tongue. It’s so unpleasant, molten amber filling his mouth and offgassing into his sinus, but it goes down easier than the first sip now that he knows what to expect. He smacks his tongue a few times and shakes his head.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Tony’s obnoxious voice surprises him, as if he had momentarily forgotten he was alone. Bucky blinks a few times to clear his thoughts. “If everything goes right, every amputee SCF in America will get one of these bad boys.”

“If?” Bucky sharply repeats.

“Did I say that? I meant, when.”

“Pretty sure you meant ‘if,’” Bucky insists, glaring at him over the rim of his glass when he takes another sip. He can really taste the caramel now, and the smokiness expands over his chest like a warm cloud.

“The biggest, fattest ‘if’ is that human of yours.” This again? “If his program fails, which it’s likely to, then SCFs are just as screwed as they’ve always been.”

“Being an SCF doesn’t mean you’re screwed,” Bucky snaps. The alcohol burning in his belly seems to have spread to his veins and suddenly he feels less inclined to be polite to the richest cat in the world. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand it, since your name is on the damn building.” In fact, fuck the richest cat in the world. “Humans actually _need_ us. You just don’t know what it’s like because no one needs you for _anything.”_

“I know what it’s like, to walk down the street in Japan and not have to worry about wearing a muzzle,” Tony shoots back. “Can you say the same?”

“Captain Rogers made it so that I don’t have to,” Bucky proudly states, pushing out his chest. “That’s what it means to be an SCF. They respect what we’ve sacrificed for them!” Bucky doesn’t why he’s bragging about this, because he’s pretty sure Captain Rogers never actually got Bucky the security classification necessary to make it legal for him to be in public without a muzzle.

“Please. That’s just special treatment because your human thinks you’re some kind of pet,” Tony argues and Bucky snarls. “Real respect? That’s being bowed to, like a normal person in Japan. Real respect is getting sat at the busiest restaurant in town without a reservation. Real respect is a weekend with kitty pop idols like Yuki-chan—”

Bucky punches Tony Stark, right in his big mouth, when Captain Rogers and Pepper Potts enter the lab.

“Bucky!” Rogers shouts.

“Tony!” Pepper scolds.

Shit, Bucky thinks. He backs away, even as Tony finally shows his fangs and lays back his ears.

“What the hell, Buck!” Rogers says, marching over so swiftly that Bucky finds himself backing up a few steps, his tail hanging low and ears flattened to the sides. Rogers looks like he can’t decide between being furious or scared, so he settles on shock by the time he stands in front of Bucky with his fists on his hips. “What’s going on here?”

“Sorry, sir. Tony and I—”

“Nothing, nothing!” Tony insists, holding up his hands like he’s the one in trouble. Given the look on Pepper’s face, he might not be wrong about that. “Just rough housing. Right, Bucko?”

 _Bucko_ sounds so stupid that Bucky might just blurt out that he punched Tony, right in his stupid rich face mouth. Face. Mouth? Bucky sways where he stands, suddenly too tired to keep scowling.

Tony rubs his split lip with the pads of his fingertips, and then breaks into a grin that looks like it hurt. “Experiment complete, strength in the right arm seems to be, er,” Tony finally winces, unable to keep up the toothy grin. “Adequate. No harm, no foul.”

“Sure,” Bucky sneers, unwilling to break faith with another cat. “Let’s go with that.”

“What are you drinking?” Captain Rogers asks and Bucky looks down to his hand, where he still holds the crystal tumbler with two melted ice cubes and half a serving of Tony’s expensive whiskey. Tony’s own glass seems to have magically disappeared.

“Um.”

“Tony,” Pepper says, her voice so cold it snaps them all to attention.

“It’s not his fault, ma’am,” Bucky starts, and puts the glass down on the nearest counter. “I asked—”

“No you didn’t,” Pepper interrupts and Bucky snaps his mouth shut, and when he does so realizes he feels a bit off balance, like someone is standing on his tail. “Tony. Upstairs. Now.”

Bucky can hear the bones in Tony’s throat click when he swallows, and even though Tony still has a bounce in his step when he walks away, Bucky notices his tail curled low at his ankles and his ears remain flattened as he heads to the elevator, by himself.

“I-I’m sorry, Captain Rogers,” Bucky starts. “I have no excuse for my—” Bucky blinks, and has to reposition his tail to adjust his balance. It’s a weird feeling, like the floor is moving, so he glares back at his tail like it’s at fault. “...My behavior.”

“Aw, Buck.”

Bucky likes it when Captain Rogers calls him that. “I like it when you call me that,” comes tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Fuck!” He says, out loud, and slaps a hand over his mouth.

Pepper immediately turns red, but Captain Rogers just looks shocked. “We… should get some water in you.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.” Bucky has no idea what he’s supposed to say anymore. “Fuck...” Instead of saying anything else he takes one last look at the implant, floating in the tank, before he follows immediately behind Captain Rogers who he trusts will get him where he needs to be.

* * *

Steve is leaning with his back turned in the doorway to Bucky’s bedroom, giving the cat privacy as he washes the taste of the liquor out of his mouth. “Did that even taste good to you?”

“No, sir,” comes the sound of Bucky’s miserable voice from the bathroom. “It tasted like a grenade.”

Pepper put them in some kind of suite within Stark Tower with a living room, kitchen and reception area, and two bedrooms with private en suite bathrooms. It’s the same basic layout as his own apartment, but maybe twice the size, and three times the luxury. The sink finally shuts off, and Steve puts away his phone. He had been texting with Pepper, who assured him Bucky hadn’t gotten into enough alcohol to do any real harm. After reading everything from the CFC Steve can’t help but feel the nervous twist in his gut that Bucky actually managed to hurt himself.

Why would he even do something so reckless? It doesn’t seem like him at all, and Steve can’t help but wonder what Tony Stark must have told him to convince him to drink it in the first place.

Still, he smiles at the thought of someone saying a bottle of single batch, thirty five year old whiskey tastes like live ordinance. At least Bucky’s first (and hopefully last) experience with alcohol was something worthwhile. Bucky emerges from the bathroom, his tail dragging behind him, one ear drooped to the side while the other flicks irritably. He stops short when he sees Steve standing there.

“You okay?” Steve says, and Bucky nods, clearly not. Poor guy. He’s wearing soft white pajama pants with the Stark Industries logo printed on the front pocket, and a white undershirt. “Why don’t you just lay down for a while?”

Bucky glances down at the series of small paper cups on the night stand. His pre-op pills that he needs to take before bed had already been delivered, along with the sterilized hospital gown and the gurney, which waits for him pushed against the wall of the bedroom. His surgery is scheduled for the first thing the next morning, so he’ll have another round of pills before they get started, anesthetized for the entire procedure. Steve can tell Bucky is thinking of it now, and the six hours he’s supposed to spend under the knife.

“I’ll wake you if you’re still asleep when you need to take them,” Steve offers. “You can’t take them now, since you have booze in your system.”

“Can I legally be in public without my muzzle, sir?” Bucky asks suddenly, not looking up from the paper cups.

Steve blows out a breath. Where did that come from?

“Not exactly,” he admits, and Bucky nods, like he expected that answer. “I’ve filed the paperwork for your security classification. It probably won’t come back until the end of the month. In the meantime we’ll be fine. Not many people want to mess with the Department of Defense for stupid stuff like that.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth quirks up in a sad smile, but he still doesn’t look up. “Stupid stuff…” he repeats, and sits heavily on the gurney. It’s tall enough that his feet dangle, and he kicks them lightly up and down. “I thought a lot about just getting cut, but I couldn’t serve anymore if I did that. Not that it made much difference, in the end,” Bucky looks aside, at his ruined shoulder. There’s a dark mesh cap on it, something one of the nurses gave him that would moisturize the area before the procedure, and help keep it sterile.

Steve doesn’t know what to say. The gelding process is a practical choice for many male cats leaving the military, with no option to return to service. Steve made sure to include a benefit in his SCF initiative to assist cats in obtaining the procedure at a reduced cost. His own body aches at the thought of the surgery that cleanly removes the testicles while leaving the rest of the reproductive organ in tact. He takes a step into Bucky’s room, closing the gap between them. He wants to lift his chin, but touching him would be inappropriate. “Hey, Buck,” he says. “Don’t let anyone do something to you that you don’t want, okay? Even this surgery. If you’re scared of it, we don’t have to do it.”

“But,” Bucky says, looking up suddenly. “Pepper and Stark Industries. Wouldn’t your deal be in trouble?”

“That’s not something you need to worry about,” Steve says. “Keeping the DOD contractors happy is my job. If you feel the same way about this surgery as you did about getting gelded, then don’t do it.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh. “It’s not that,” Bucky says. “It’s just, I’m really glad I didn’t, in hindsight. Tony got under my skin about the muzzle and it would have made it really difficult to punch him in the mouth if he hadn’t.”

A shocked laugh bursts out of Steve, and then Bucky starts laughing along with him. It takes a while for him to reduce his mirth down to a moderate chuckle, when he finally gets to ask, “Did that feel good?”

“So good, sir!” Bucky manages through his own giggles, as he wipes away a tear. Maybe it’s the alcohol or the long afternoon, but laughing with Bucky feels amazing and real, and Steve realizes it’s because he’s used to this by now. Everything with Bucky is just that easy. “I wanted to all night long, I swear,” Bucky adds, still chuckling.

“Oh, he’s so obnoxious,” Steve agrees, and then a fresh wave of laughter overtakes him again. “I thought you _liked_ him!”

“Ha!” Bucky laughs harder, and shakes his head. Their mirth seems to cool off then, and Bucky looks back down at the pills, lined up for his procedure.

Steve sighs and shakes his head, following his gaze. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

“Yes, sir.” Bucky says, but he pushes his fangs into his bottom lip. “I’m scared. But I’m ready.”

Steve is about to leave then, but gets distracted when he sees the fine smile lines that crinkle up at the edges of Bucky’s eyes, damp from his own happy tears. Steve had always felt like Sakhalin had been just yesterday, the last significant thing that happened in his life. Now suddenly the island feels far away and long ago, and the five years he spent searching for his friend has come to a head, leading them separately into this very moment. They are both older, wiser, and distant from the lives they used to live.

Steve doesn’t think about what he does next, he just reaches across the space between them and wraps his arms around Bucky, hugging him closely to his chest. He feels Bucky adjust his balance, thrown off by Steve’s embrace, then the weight of Bucky’s arm wraps around Steve’s shoulders as he returns the hug with a contented sigh.

“I’ll be there the whole time,” Steve whispers into his neck. “I swear I won’t lose you again.”

Steve can feel Bucky’s heartbeat, fluttering against his own chest, and without warning the mood in the room shifts. He withdraws, only enough to look Bucky in the face.

Steve swallows, and both of them freeze, scared of making a move that would frighten the other away. Bucky’s hand clutches his shirt collar, holding him in place, and Steve’s own hands stay pressed into the middle of Bucky’s back, gathering him in close.

Steve swallows again, but it’s harder this time since his mouth has gone dry and his face is engulfed by heat. Bucky’s bright blue eyes are locked on Steve’s own, pupils blown wide and round. At this distance he almost looks human.

Steve closes his eyes, and allows himself that fantasy of a human Bucky. Those red, bitten lips, the square jaw, the dimple in his chin. The laughter, the sarcasm, the strength, the beauty. If Bucky were human, this wouldn’t be wrong—and it is wrong! It’s so, _so_ wrong, but somehow in this alternate dimension, Steve holds a human Bucky in his arms where the rules don’t apply, and it’s _right._

Then Bucky rolls his hand into a fist, pulling Steve in by his shirt, and brings their bodies back together. Steve is close enough now to feel Bucky’s breath ghost across his cheek, and he can smell the graham cracker and vanilla scent of Bucky’s skin. Steve wants to put his mouth on him, somewhere, _anywhere,_ for the slightest taste of it. Bucky’s leg is slung over his hip and Steve is painfully aware of the friction between their bodies, of the heat between Bucky’s legs, of the desire building up until it ignites a physical ache. Steve dares to relax his hold on Bucky’s back, and his hands slide down to settle on his hips. They both catch their breath when Steve’s fingers brush up under the edge of Bucky’s undershirt to touch his naked waist. Steve tucks his chin against the side of Bucky’s neck and his lips whisk against the tender skin of his throat. He can feel Bucky’s whole body tremble beneath him.

“C-captain,” Bucky breathes into Steve’s ear, back arching ever so slightly with his gasp. “What are we doing?”

Bucky’s voice is nothing above a whisper, barely uttered at all, but the simple question jolts Steve’s senses back to reality in an instant.

“Nothing!” Steve says, and pushes away as fast as he can. He can’t seem to catch his breath at all and he paces away from Bucky before he turns back around. Bucky draws his knees up to his chest as if he’s trying to replace the heat that Steve took with him, shock painted across his face. “Nothing,” Steve says again, but he can’t meet Bucky’s eyes so he stares at the floor. “This never happened.”

“I understand, sir,” Bucky says, because of course he does so Steve turns on his heel to leave. “Captain Rogers?”

Steve stops in the doorway to Bucky’s room, only he doesn’t turn back around because he’s a goddamn coward. Instead, he makes a fist out of his hand and rests it on the door frame, leaning into it to really feel the wood’s sharp edge. There a long silence between them, as if they are both of them afraid to move again, before Bucky speaks up.

“It felt nice,” he says. “It’s been a long time since anyone touched me,” Bucky takes in a soft breath, unsure what to call what just happened between them. “Well, touched me like _that._ It felt nice.”

It’s been a long time for Steve as well, and it did feel nice, but _holy fuck_ doesn’t Bucky understand that’s what’s so fucked up about it?

“It never happened,” Steve says again, then leaves without another word.

* * *

 A very innocent hug, right before it turns not-so-innocent ;) by the always amazing [DeanDraws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/post/157154674485/commission-work-for-resinonao3-check-out-their)! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY I'M BACK!!! My trade show went really well :) Thank you everyone for the well wishes!


	12. Strategic Alliances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****WARNING****  
> The fan art included in this chapter is NSFW. I'll post another just ahead of it, with a longer gap between it and the end of the text, so that it can be avoided.
> 
> Glossary:  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

Bucky drops to his feet as soon as Captain Rogers leaves the room, staggers to the bathroom and locks the door behind him. He’s breathless and lightheaded, and not sure how much of it is from the lingering fizz of drunkenness or from what just fucking happened.

Bucky leans back into the door, presses the flat of his hand against his belly. He’s a cross between feeling sick and fucking terrified, and his tail can’t seem to sit still, thumping hard against the door. It’s angry with him for making it work so hard against the alcohol, and all the electricity from the captain’s touch seems to have shot straight down into the tip, leaving it shivering with energy.

“Fuck,” he pants into the air.

Then he throws up.

* * *

The elevators in Stark Tower are so smooth that it barely feels like Steve is moving at all. Some of them, like the one he came down in from the helicopter pad, have windows that peer out over the whole city while the private ones, like the one he’s in now, are windowless and mostly silent. Steve is trapped inside, left with nothing to distract him from his own heartbeat, pounding over the slight, electric pulse of the cab’s inner workings as he ascends to Pepper’s private floor.

He fidgets with his service cap all the way up.

Nothing happened, he repeats to himself. No reason to feel so anxious. His hands sweat, insisting on the memory, and he shakes one out like the lingering feel of Bucky’s bare skin could be tossed away like water droplets. The doors finally open and he adjusts his necktie, stepping into a large, comfortable penthouse.

“Captain Rogers,” Pepper pops out from around the corner of a long, wide hall. “I’m so glad you could make it. Come on in.” Steve passes a side table with a bouquet of flowers the size of fourth of July fireworks on his way in. “Bucky not feeling up to dinner?”

Steve swallows. _Nothing_ happened. “I think he isn’t feeling anything except sorry for himself,” Steve says with a smile. “He drank a lot of water and brushed his teeth. I ordered him room service before I left. He should be okay in a few hours.”

“Good to hear,” she says, when they enter a wide, open dining room. The sun has set by now and the view of Manhattan at night twinkles from beyond the windows. An ultra modern chandelier hangs from the tall ceiling, tabs of prism-cut plexi cascading down along the entire length of the dining room table, reflecting flecks of rainbows against the far walls. There are several other people seated around the table, who all stand when he and Pepper enter the room.

“Captain Rogers, I’d like to introduce you to Happy Hogan,” Pepper starts, nodding to the man sat next to Steve’s own place setting. He looks relaxed for the evening, the jacket of his suit draped over the back of his chair and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He smiles broadly when he shakes Steve’s hand. “My personal assistant. He’ll help coordinate the logistics with our other partners for the campaign. This is Doctor Cho, she’s the head of our prosthetic development team. Bucky will be in her excellent care tomorrow. Colonel Rhodes, our military attaché for the advanced research division.” Steve snaps off a saute immediately after catching sight of his Air Force rank. He knew the military attaché would be here, but is surprised to see that he’s a full bird colonel. Steve is relieved he cleaned up his uniform after he left Bucky’s room.

Nothing happened, he repeats again in his mind, and clears his throat. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

“I’m sorry your candidate couldn’t come,” Happy starts, as they all take their seats. The food apparently hasn’t arrived yet, but there’s already several open bottles of wine making the rounds. Steve passes the bottle between Dr. Cho and Happy without pouring any for himself and the man nods in appreciation, without comment. “Knowing Tony, he probably got a taste of the good stuff, at least.”

“It was a thirty five year Glenlochy,” Pepper says, with a wince. “Tony picked it up the last time we were in Scotland.”

“Is he going to be alright?” Doctor Cho asks, then frowns when another thought occurs. “He knows not to take the pre-op drugs until after two a.m., right?”

“I set an alarm,” Steve says. “And I’m sure he’ll be okay. He looked a little green around the edges, but wasn’t slurring anymore once he drank some water.” Steve closes his eyes for a moment, remembering the heat of Bucky’s breath on his ear as he asked, _what are we doing?_

“Well, I haven’t met a cat that hasn’t tried some before,” the Colonel says. “Though honestly, I’m surprised that Tony is still alive with the amount he drinks.”

“He dilutes it,” Pepper adds, conspiratorially. “I checked the bottle he poured from and it’s been watered down. Believe it or not, I think he genuinely just likes the taste of it.”

“Bucky said it tasted like a live grenade,” Steve adds as a matter of course, and the table laughs; Rhodes the hardest. This isn’t so bad. They don’t know. Not that there is anything to know, because nothing happened.

The food arrives and the conversation takes a turn into a full blown political discourse of the SCF program, some absolutely terrible suggestions for the program name are thrown around, and Pepper makes more than one shrewd comment about the President’s policies regarding the early withdrawal from the Russian occupation.

“It’s interesting that military spending should increase so drastically, when the President’s message is that we’re reducing our military footprint in the Russian theater,” Pepper says, her tone innocent enough.

“It’s not very uncommon,” Rhodey reasons. “We built up a number of defenses immediately after World War II as well, even before Russia attacked Switzerland.”

“President Truman saw that conflict coming,” Pepper reminds him. “I wonder what our president is preparing for.”

“There’s always China,” Steve murmurs, but he understands Pepper’s criticism. Steve could never say so himself, not with Colonel Rhodes in the room, but he has thought about the political strategy influencing military decisions a lot recently. The president’s focus seems to have mainly been on public perception, managing threats at home like the recent unrest within the feral cat population. Other than Japan, the international community is rather deaf about the problems the United States deals with, having an entire separate class of people within their society. The cat population has been nearly extinguished in the rest of the world, where countries refused to adapt feline control laws and government breeding programs after the mass die-off in the 1820’s.  

“We’ve had a few bad altercations with them, supporting Russia’s forces,” Rhodey agrees with regards to the growing China conflict, and Steve’s mind stops walking through high school history lessons.

“Hmm,” Pepper says, and the conversation moves on.

More bottles of wine are opened the discussion gets more casual, Steve alone is the only one who doesn't wind up a little pink in the face since he sticks close to his water glass all night. Once the desserts show up, and Steve finally starts to relax, the conversation somehow swings around to everyone’s significant others. Before Steve can repeat his mantra, Pepper asks, “So what about you, Captain Rogers? Anyone special back in D.C.?”

Something knocks in his chest and the image of Bucky’s stunned expression resurfaces, that look in his eyes like he had just jumped off a cliff, only to find that Steve had taken away his parachute. Steve knows what betrayal looks like well enough, but it doesn't hit him until this very moment. “Not for me,” Steve says with an easy shrug, coming back to the room. “Believe it or not, working in a top secret office block in the Pentagon makes it hard to meet someone.”

“I gotta tell you,” the Colonel speaks up. “Sometimes when I’m drafting contract negotiations, I miss dodging bullets. At least you get to meet new people out in the field.”

Steve laughs, but he’s already starting to tune out. He’s good at this, carrying on a conversation as if nothing else is going on beneath the surface. He makes a joke—something non-political and benign—while internally going over the colonel’s words.

He never would have betrayed Bucky like this out in the field. Never would have run away from that fight. He hates himself for abandoning a person who he would consider a friend in any other situation. His participation in the gathering slowly fades into the background as they move into the living room for evening coffees. Steve quickly makes an excuse to leave, claiming that he wants to check on Bucky again and manages a few awkward goodbyes.

Before he can fully extract himself from the ring of sofas pulled around a magnificent fireplace, Pepper puts her hand on his arm, and gives him a soft smile, like she knows. Of course she doesn’t but Steve gulps and hides the worry that struggles towards the surface.

Even though he tries not to rush, everything, even the elevator, feels like it’s moving too fast. The urgency driving him forward forces him violently along despite the fact that he’s already following its will. It’s like there’s a time limit on the apology that needs to be made, as if it might grow impatient and abandon him, before he has a chance to speak it aloud. He can go to bed tonight, ignoring what happened, but he can’t expect Bucky to do the same. It's already too much to expect from his poor cat, to prepare mentally and physically for a very invasive surgery, while also covering up such a confusing mistake that rests squarely on Steve’s shoulders.

Steve is the closest thing to a keeper Bucky has right now, and if he weren’t then he’d still be something like Bucky’s commanding officer. Either way, he can’t leave a friend hanging.

It happened, and Steve needs to deal with it.

* * *

In the absence of an overstuffed easy chair, Bucky decides to settle down on the sofa until Rogers comes back from dinner. It’s all modern hard angles and flat cushions, not nearly as comfortable as the captain’s squashy worn down one, but he manages to tuck his face into a pile of throw pillows and sigh into the crook of his elbow, not entirely brokenhearted.

After brushing his teeth again (what with all the barfing), he managed to drink about a gallon of cold water from the dispenser in the fridge, then picked at his dinner that had arrived on a silver tray, delivered by a man wearing white, cotton gloves. Now, he’s bored and a little sleepy, not in the mood for television, and even though he had hoped Rogers might text him, his phone has only lit up with a few sad emojis from Tony _fucking_ Stark. Tony even uses the cat-faced ones, because he’s an asshole.

What would Bucky even say if Rogers were to text him? Probably just, ‘ _it never happened’_ and let the human stew on it.

“Asshole,” Bucky groans, and stuffs his phone between the cushions, making the captain’s expensive gift disappear. He uncurls with a yawn, extending across the length of the sofa, and lets his tail hang lazily over the edge. One stroke of his hand down the flat of his stomach and the ghost of the captain’s touch resurfaces, warming his skin. This time he lets his hand drift lower, palming his dick through the soft cotton and the heat begins to spread.

It’s been a long time since he’s thought about his own body. It’s not really something he considers at all between heat cycles, and he’s not the kind of cat who has trouble attracting a mate when he is in season— or being approached by other ferals when they hit theirs. It’s the one thing that’s actually easier without a collar, since ferals don’t need to step foot in the CFC’s matchmaking dorms while surviving in Karpov’s tenement.

Pick a mate, couple for the five or so days while the season lasts, and move on. Of course, meaningful pair bonds never last long in tenements, and Bucky isn’t even sure what that might look like. That sort of thing seems practical for kept cats, like his parents. Otherwise, he’s not sure cats could even have a… a what? _Relationship?_

“Asshole,” he says again, when that bright smile and full body laughter comes to mind. Bucky’s hand tenses over his own sex, which twitches with interest at the thought of the captain’s face. Bucky shakes his head, doing his best to deny it. He has better things to think about than those sweet, butterfly kisses on his neck.

In a few hours he’ll swallow down a fist full of drugs that will lower his immune system, relax his muscles, fight off infection and a number of other things that Bucky can’t even remember. A nurse will stop by to draw his blood, rescheduled from earlier since she couldn’t do it after Bucky had gotten drunk (the captain really let him have it for that one). Finally, no earlier than 2 a.m., he’ll have to try and sleep knowing that whatever remains of his left shoulder will soon be gone.

It twinges when he thinks about it, a phantom pain somewhere past the stump that no longer feels anything like an actual limb. He looks down at the mangled shoulder, poking out from under the strap of his undershirt and wonders for the first time how unattractive it might appear, rather than how much of his disability it reveals. The flesh is red and angry, puckered in some spots, and the skin peels in others where the scars imperfectly knit together. He can even identify some of the obvious scarring from the teeth of the Russian cats that tore into him.

Bucky probably casts a terribly asymmetrical shadow, one shoulder so much more reduced than the other. Thinking that might be fixed as well, that he’ll look normal as well as feel normal, suddenly seems very important. If everything goes well tomorrow, Bucky might even become the handsome cat he once was.

Bucky frowns at the thought, his mind getting hung up on the ‘if’ part, as Tony Stark had so graciously reminded him. Naturally, that quickly reminds him of Tony’s ridiculous and cryptic warning about Captain Rogers, which quickly snuffs out Bucky’s flagging arousal. He brings his hand to his throat, touches the precious license, and considers all it means to both the captain and himself.

Is he just being selfish? Wanting something from Rogers he knows he can’t have? The human’s already given him so much. This new life with this new license, and soon this new arm. What does he even want from him in the first place? Do humans pair bond the same way cats do? Do they even mate? Everything on TV has taught him that human relationships are much more complicated than feline ones, more meaningful and more committed. Humans have ancient and established courtship rituals, their whole standing within society changing once they ascend between titles. Dating. Boyfriend. Husband. Had Bucky’s dad been a ‘husband’? Can cats and humans even…?

No. It’s called cat scratch fever for a reason. It's nothing more than a sickness.

Bucky drops his hand away from his collar, covers his eyes when he feels a headache coming on. The thought is ridiculous. The captain is right. It’s better if it just didn't happen. When Rogers gets back Bucky will just act like a normal, kept cat. Yes, sir. No, sir. Thank you very much, sir. Tony Stark can make fun of him all he wants.

...It sure felt nice though.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers, and inhales deeply through his nose, catching a lingering thread of the captain’s scent in the room. Bucky hums, lets his hand drift down again, this time tucking under the elastic of his pants. He’s not hard, not yet, but it’s nice to feel so defenseless for a moment in his own hand. His chest tingles at the thought of the captain’s mouth on his skin, those full lips coming to rest on his throat, working down to his collar bone. Bucky sucks in a breath and thrusts his hips lazily into his palm.

Whatever he can get from the captain, he knows he still wants more.

The elevator at the end of the hallway chimes, the doors make their distinctive swishing noise, and Bucky hears the unmistakable weight of footfalls outside their suite. Playtime is over. He sadly separates from himself, tucks his tail back around and curls up. Modest. Disinterested. Still a little sleepy. Anticipating nothing.

Bucky rolls over to greet the captain when the door opens, and Black Panther walks into the room.

* * *

Steve’s nerve seems to have crawled into a hollow within his chest, and refuses to budge when he finally steps off the elevator. The hallway is uncomfortably modern, with glass windows along one side and suite doors on the other, extending along one entire side of the building. It’s not exactly cozy, but the suites are only meant for guests with short stays, like himself and Bucky, and their building access cards conveniently unlock every door they have access to by proximity alone. It’s handy, but when Steve hovers near the front door, hand unwilling to take hold of the handle despite the welcoming green light on the lock plate, he wishes he could have fiddled with some actual keys before stepping inside.

It happened, Steve reminds himself. Bucky needs him to deal with it.

Shoulders squared and chin raised, Steve finally grasps the handle but freezes when he hears a crash from inside. “Bucky—” he gasps, then dives away when the door bursts open and two cats come tumbling out.

Steve lands hard on his side, then scrambles away just in time to see Bucky rebounding off the glass wall. Another cat, dressed all in black, plucks Bucky out of the air by his throat, then slams him into the floor and Steve cries out in horror. Bucky gives a shout of pain then snarls, snapping his teeth just inches away from the other cat’s exposed shoulder, but can’t break his adversary’s hold, pinned to the floor. The other cat slams Bucky’s head into the floor again, then raises his hand.

That’s when Steve spots the weapon.

Without thinking, he charges into the cat on top of Bucky, throwing his arms around the cat’s middle, then flings his entire weight sideway in order to haul him off. The attacker tumbles out of Steve’s grip, makes a perfect three-point landing, then freezes in order to regard Steve with narrowed eyes.

“You!” Steve blurts out, when he recognizes the hard, scowling lines of Black Panther’s mask.

“We are all of us disappointed in you, Captain Rogers,” the cat replies. He has an accent, something soft and foreign, not American. Steve can’t make out any distinguishing features behind the mask, other than the glossy, rounded ears poking out of the top, and a long obsidian tail, lashing out behind him. Black Panther’s fingers had dug into the floor where he pulled a deep gash into the hallway carpet, his free hand poised above his head ready to strike. Sharp, metal claws extend from each fingertip.

Steve has no weapons, but he takes a backwards step and raises his arms, determined to keep Bucky covered as Black Panther stares him down. His movements are different from any trained SCF Steve has ever seen. Where Bucky is fluid and smooth, swaying with the natural currents in the air, Black Panther is exact and deliberate, with no wasted energy. And those claws!

Steve swallows, tightens his fists. He will die before he lets this cat hurt Bucky again.

Then just like that the Black Panther sprints away on all fours, past the elevator, and is gone.

“Oh, shit,” Steve breathes out, and turns to Bucky. “Are you okay?”

“Move!” Bucky shouts, and bolts past him, tearing down the hall on all threes.

“Bucky, wait!” Steve shouts after him.

Steve has seen Bucky move like this before, usually right before some clueless member of the RNS wound up with a knife in his throat, or on the makeshift baseball field they built from cafeteria trays and bent rules. That had been before Bucky’s body became so lopsided though, and he crashes into the wall when he makes the turn before scrambling on.

Even slowed down as Bucky may be, Steve is far outpaced by the powerful cat. He finally catches up five floors down the emergency stairwell, coming upon Bucky gasping for air as he paces on all threes outside of the door on the landing. “Buck! What happened?”

“I lost him,” Bucky pants, then spins around to take a few tentative steps back up the stairs. “I fucking _lost_ him.” Bucky’s ears are sharp blades against the top of his head, his tail snaps back and forth like it too is furious at being outmaneuvered. Bucky’s one hand comes down awkwardly as he returns to the landing and he stumbles.

“Easy, Buck,” Steve says, and reaches down to steady him. Bucky slaps his hands away as he stands, then sends his fist into the metal door leading to the twentieth floor.

“Fucking lost him!” Bucky tugs at the door but it doesn't budge, so he snarls at the handle, frustrated that it still won’t open, even though he clearly didn’t expect it to. Steve watches helplessly as Bucky goes back to prowling on all threes. A ridge of fur has risen along the top of his tail, hackles one hundred percent up and posture radiating a level of ferocity Steve’s rarely seen, even on Sakhalin.

“I’ll call Pepper,” Steve lamely suggests. “They’ve got him on all their security cameras, I’m sure of it. The government’s been waiting for Black Panther to make a move, so there will be a whole task force out to get him. He won’t get far.” Bucky sneers at this suggestion and takes a few tentative steps down the stairs, his nose up and scenting the air for any remaining signs of him. “Buck, let it go!”

“He came into our room!” Bucky snaps, turning sharply around and rising up to his full height in one, fluid motion. Steve takes a step back as the cat crowds into his space. “Invaded our territory! I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him, and he said you—” Bucky stops himself from finishing his own sentence, eyes going wide, before he backs up and looks away.

“Said I what?” Steve asks, knowing already he’s going to regret asking. Bucky glances up at him, the agitation in his shoulders finally drifting down, like he’s slowly crushing the fury of his defeat into his feet. “Said I _what,_ Bucky?”

“Said you couldn’t be trusted,” Bucky finishes, through his teeth, watching Steve from under the wary line of his scowl.

Steve doesn’t regret asking but he does regret having handed Bucky a reason to doubt him, just before this had happened. The betrayal earlier that evening tore a raw wound between them that the Panther managed to exploit, like a perfectly timed sniper shot.

Tactical, deliberate. Like he _knew._

“I want to talk to you about what happened,” Steve says softly, but it’s too late. Bucky’s expression darkens even further and he sneers as he starts heading up the stairwell, without him. “Bucky, I’m sorry. I never should have touched you.”

“Fuck you, captain!” Bucky shouts, rounding on him. “How dare you! You’re sorry for Sakhalin, you’re sorry for my arm, sorry for the CFC and the Red Room and my whole fucking life! Just like you’re sorry for those idiot cats on TV! Doesn’t it occur to you that I was happy to make that sacrifice? Proud, even? You sit here in your fancy uniform and all that you have, looking down at us cats like we have nothing to live for, and it makes me sick!” Bucky is screaming at him now, the pupils of his eyes slammed shut as tears break out the corners. Finally, energy spent, Bucky sags, and his face crumples. “Doesn’t it ever occur to you that I think you’re fucking worth it?”

“I—” Steve swallows. He feels smaller than he ever has before; smaller than when he faced down all the judgement of the disciplinary hearing, and the disappointment of his father. “I’m not worth it, though. Bucky, I’m not...”

Bucky makes a disgusted sound and stomps up the stairs. “Call Pepper,” he orders, as he puts distance between them. “I left my phone upstairs.”

* * *

Captain Rogers talks to Stark Industries private security, the police, and Pepper herself. Apparently, no one is interested in what Bucky has to say about Black Panther himself. They keep asking if he’s okay, if the Panther hurt him, or if he wants to cancel the surgery. Bucky is too angry, and lies when he answers all three questions: He’s fine. The Panther didn’t hurt him. He definitely does not want to cancel the surgery.

Meanwhile, he catches the captain stealing a few, worried looks over to him while he’s being interviewed. Bucky is glad for all the people coming in and out of the suite, even glad when the nurse shows up to draw his blood. It’s already past two in the morning, and all he wants to think about is taking his pre-op medication and get to bed. Rogers still clearly isn’t done apologizing for anything and everything. Sucks for him, because Bucky is still too pissed at Rogers (and himself) to speak to him.

Buck had _shouted_ at the captain, right in his face. Bucky sits on the gurney, the nurse holding a small cotton ball to his arm, barely paying attention to the blood leaving his body through a little plastic tube as he goes over the angry words in his mind. Bucky had shouted at Rogers, and made it clear what he thought about the captain’s attempt to take back the connection they had made earlier. He may as well have bent the human over and sunk his fangs into the back of his neck, claiming him.

That thought makes Bucky shiver and the nurse pats his knee, mistaking it for a reaction to her needle.

Yikes, Bucky thinks, and his tail anxiously sweeps up against the hard edges of the gurney. Yikes, yikes,  yikes.

It’s not lost on him that within the space of only a few hours, two cats had warned Bucky not to trust Captain Rogers. That he is only using Bucky to promote some agenda. Panther said something about spies that Bucky knows is utter bullshit. Captain Rogers _hates_ spies. It’s one of the things he complains about most, between the lines, when he talks about his job. Of course Tony Stark was just being Tony Stark, an asshole with a chip on his shoulder about SCFs. Bucky would never have taken him seriously, but suddenly he thinks about the helmet he found on that workbench, and it doesn’t seem so much like a coincidence anymore.

The nurse is gentle when she removes the blood collection tube, then the needle, and pats his arm after she’s done taping the cotton ball in place with a stripe of adhesive. Once she’s gone he and the captain are finally left alone together, and Bucky stays put, anticipating the human’s shy approach. Captain Rogers winds up hovering in the doorway to Bucky’s room, unwilling to trespass but unsure how to strike up the conversation he knew both of them had been avoiding.

“What is it, sir?” Bucky finally asks, after they are done staring awkwardly at each other from across the room.

Rogers looks down, kicks his feet. He’s still wearing his uniform slacks and shirt, but his jacket and tie are long gone. “Just wanted to know if you’re okay.”

“Fine, sir.” Bucky says, because he’s too exhausted to admit to anything else.

“I’m not buyin’ that,” the captain immediately argues, because he’s a huge pain in the ass, and Bucky glares at him. “You’ve been protecting your right side, while usually you favor your left. Plus, your tail gives you away.”

Bucky shoots a look down to his tail, but finds it innocently draped off the side of the gurney, relaxed. “What?” He asks, confused by the captain’s remark, but Rogers just laughs.

Oh. He’s teasing him.

“Is it okay if I come in?” The captain asks, and it’s weird because he wouldn’t have a few hours ago, but for some reason the tension seems to be melting away.

Bucky’s tail responds to that with an interested curl and he wants to slap it. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

Captain Rogers comes to a stop in front of him, and now they are back where they started before he left. Bucky sitting on the gurney while Rogers, half out of uniform, stood in front of him. Except this time Rogers stands further back, not daring to crowd into Bucky’s personal space, and Bucky knows he won’t touch him again.

Instead, the captain nods meaningfully towards Bucky’s right side. “Can I see?”

Bucky swallows, and doesn’t look at him when he lifts up the corner of his undershirt. There’s a dark purple bruise forming along his ribs where he had hit the corner of the coffee table. It hurts, and it’ll hurt even worse later, but nothing’s broken. No need to fret over it. Rogers clicks his tongue. “He got you good there, Buck. You sure you don’t want some ice or something?”

Bucky shakes his head. “He could have killed me. Easily. I’m lucky I got a few hits in, but he was holding back.”

“Was he the one that attacked first?” Rogers asks, without judgement.

“No,” Bucky admits. “I attacked him.” Panther had just stood there, looming over him from where Bucky had been curled up on the sofa, waiting for the captain’s return. “He walked right in like he owned the place. Said something about the president needing feline puppets like me, and said that your spies are all corrupt. I thought Black Panther was some kind of,” Bucky’s lip curls and he bites through the words. “Some kind of _activist._ But this is all government conspiracy bullshit. I guess I didn’t really listen. If I had both arms he never would have— ” Bucky shakes his head. There’s no point in thinking like that. He looks up and sees the captain looking terribly apologetic, so he kicks out one foot, almost reaching the captain’s knee with the tip of his toes. “Not gonna say sorry again, are you?”

“Ha,” Rogers says, and relaxes enough to roll his eyes. “I think I’ve learned my lesson. It’s been a long time since I’ve got that kind of dressing down.”

“First time I got a chance to yell at a human,” Bucky snorts. “Not as fun as punching Tony Stark, but close.”

The captain laughs again, the sound triggering a fondness in Bucky’s chest that makes him smile in return. It feels nice.

“I know we need to talk about what happened,” Rogers says. “I know I have a lot to answer for, walking away like I did. _That_ is what I’d really like to apologize for, if you’d let me. After tomorrow things are going to move really fast. I’d like for us to be friends again, before that happens.”

“Friends,” Bucky says, and touches his license. “Is that what we are?”

“Not all that we are,” the captain says, adding a shrug because the other things—keeper, superior officer, human—aren’t what this conversation is about. “But the important part. To me.”

Bucky hums, and the same flutter energizes his stomach, just like when the captain had first left him overheated and aching. He lays his hand on his own belly, reminded of the sensation. He still wants more than he can have, but friends sounds good, too. “I trust you, Captain Rogers. More than Black Panther. More than Tony Stark.”

The captain’s smile falters. “What did Tony Stark have to say about me?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “That your program will fail and SCFs will be just as screwed as we’ve always been. That you’re not really my keeper and you’re just stringing me along.”

“Ouch,” Rogers says, wincing.

“He’s an idiot,” Bucky says with a shrug. “Civilians have no idea what it’s like over there. I’m sure other humans are the same way. The ones that say things about the president, withdrawing the military occupation early. Tony’s rich but completely clueless.”

The captain nods, but he looks conflicted, like he doesn't exactly agree. “I just heard the part about the kitty pop star,” he says, smoothly changing the subject with a shy smile. “I really didn’t think you’d be such a loyal a fan.”

Bucky laughs. “Oh, no. I’m not. That music is terrible. But Neko Yuki-chan is—” Bucky stops himself, shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. Rogers isn’t interested. “Anyway, he earned it. So did you.”

The captain gives him an arched look, skeptical but still smiling. “Did I earn any forgiveness yet?”

Bucky doesn’t know why but that small, slightly sassy smile goes right to his heart. It inflates under Bucky’s ribs until it makes his breath stick, and he has to swallow once before answering. “Sure. I still need someone to polish my new arm, remember?”

Rogers turns pink, even this tips of his funny little human ears, and he crosses his arms right under his broad chest. Maybe cats don’t have relationships like humans do, and maybe humans can’t pair bond like cats, but at least he and Rogers can be friends.

It’s not thrilling or loaded with heat or all consuming, like that single, charged embrace.

...But it’s nice.

“How could I forget?” Rogers says with a wink.

It’s nice.

* * *

Steve doesn’t sleep that night. Tony Stark and Black Panther had both approached Bucky within the same evening. Both had waited until Steve had been separated from him, able to candidly speak to him without a human in the room.

Steve may have been out of combat for years, but he knows a strategic play when he sees one. He doesn’t question Bucky’s loyalty. Bucky would never do anything to compromise Steve, or himself, even if he had that small moment of doubt.

The worst thing about it, worse than the implications of an alliance between Stark Industries and Black Panther, is that they were both of them right.

Steve is not Bucky’s keeper. Steve has him checked out from inventory, like a weapon, which Fury could recall at any time. He’s promised the Department of Defense, along with a network of spies, access to Bucky, to use him as an asset in the Black Panther’s organization. Steve’s traded on Bucky’s faith and loyalty like currency, in exchange for Bucky’s freedom from the Red Room, but hasn’t ensured any real security for him.

Then Steve had dared to put his hands on Bucky, like a lover. Dared to talk about their friendship, like he’d done anything at all to deserve it.

“I’m not worth it,” Steve whispers into the darkness of his room. He doesn’t need the alcohol to remind him of that. Not tonight. “I’m not worth it.”

* * *

 

 **!!!!!!!NSFW!!!!!**  artwork below, commissioned by the fabulously talented [Boltplumart](http://boltplumart.tumblr.com/post/157896802659/stevebucky-another-commission-client-asked-for)! 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make sure to get this posted while it was still Bucky's 100th birthday in California ;) 15 minutes to spare! 
> 
> Thought it'd be a fun way to celebrate March 10th. Happy birthday Bucko!


	13. What's Yours Is Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

“Take deep, full breaths and count backwards from ten with me,” Dr. Cho says, holding the respirator over Bucky’s nose and mouth. “Ten, nine, eight…”

Bucky’s voice slurs at six and his eyes flutter closed by the time they get to three. His fingers tighten around Steve’s hand in one, final spasm before his face falls slack.

“Good kitty,” Dr. Cho whispers to the unconscious cat, and pats the top of his head, through the cap holding his hair back from his face. Steve is wearing a similar cap, including safety glasses, along with a full set scrubs. When Dr. Cho had told him he could stand in during the surgery he agreed without hesitation, preferring that to the anxiety of suffering alone in some waiting room for six hours. The last time Bucky had vanished behind a doctor’s curtain, it had taken Steve five years to find him again.

He hadn’t counted on how exhausting it would be to watch, or how his stomach would churn over the sound of the bone saw working away the gnarled cap of Bucky’s shoulder. If the surgery brief hadn’t been so thorough he would have thought they were tearing Bucky to pieces.

Four hours in, an armature attached to the ceiling descends, and punches a line of the sensory diodes along Bucky’s spine. Dr. Cho guides the implant along with the surgical technicians to steady the structure, delicately easing it into position. The grafting material fuses the metal to Bucky’s tender, exposed muscle and then makes a strange suckling noise when excess air jets out from a coil of metal tubing. A surgical technician removes the tube quickly, and then Bucky’s whole body jerks to the side.

“Hold him!” Dr. Cho hisses, slamming both hands down on his back. “Hold him down! Don’t let him tear the shunts out!” The four surgical technicians immediately comply, holding the cat down and Steve takes a worried step forward. “Captain Rogers! You too!”

Steve quickly leaps to the side of the surgical table and plants his hands down on the small of Bucky’s back, below the dark splash of the bruise left by the Black Panther, just as the cat’s legs kick violently against the restraints. “Whoa, Bucky!”

“He’s not awake,” Dr. Cho assures him, and grunts when she’s practically lifted off her feet. “His vertebrae is just readjusting to the presence of the new connections. This should be normal.”

“Should be?” Steve repeats in a shout. Bucky’s tail whips out from under the loose strap, and Steve grabs it, using both hands to shove it back down. “Shh, Bucky,” he urges, even though he knows the cat can’t hear him. “You’re okay. You’re going to be totally fine.” The spasms wrack Bucky’s body several more times, and Steve’s shoes skid against the slick linoleum floor, the brute force of the muscle in Bucky’s tail enough to shove him away. His hip strikes a wheeled cart near the foot of the surgical table, and a metal dish of bloody tools topple to the floor. The fur on Bucky’s tail stands up, and Steve strokes it down, best he can with his latex gloves. “Shhh, Bucky…”

The spasms stop, and Bucky finally goes loose beneath them. Steve practically falls into the table when Bucky’s tail stops wrestling back, and he tries to gently lay it down between Bucky’s shivering legs. There’s a mechanical whine and a click, and the team takes an exhausted step back, taking a moment to catch their breath.

The shoulder implant is in place, and it’s working.

* * *

“Take deep, full breaths and count backwards from ten with me,” the doctor says, giving Bucky a gentle smile. Bucky can already smell the sickly sweet gas, filtering into the sterilized plastic mask. “Ten, nine, eight…”

      Seven.

               Six.

                     Five….

Bucky dreams of snow.

He’s running on all fours and it hits his chest as he bounds through it, knocks the wind out of him every time he plunges back down. He has all his limbs because he always does in his dreams, but he’s lost something else, far more precious than an arm. He needs to find it before it gets dark, but he keeps forgetting exactly what it is he’s looking for.

Something small like a knife, or big like a door.

Then it’s dark, and Bucky’s priority switches to finding his way back to base. He’s only thirteen years old, and out past curfew. The snow is so deep his face keeps going under, like he’s fighting to keep his head above the crashing waves of Sakhalin’s ocean, and he’s too small to reach above them.

The last time a student on base was out past curfew, their training officer had dumped water on the kit’s head and made him sleep outside. Now Bucky is panicking, worried that the smell of the snow will give him away, that he was out far too late into the everlasting night.

It clings to him all over, like a horde of tiny insects, and suddenly Bucky is drowning in it. Brock is the one that finds him, yanks him out of it by his scruff and dusts him off. Brock’s bright orange fur stands out against the white swirl behind him, the black stripes practically glowing inverse to the light.

“They all know, kitten,” he growls.

“Mate with me,” Bucky says, desperate. Begging. He’s not thirteen anymore, but feels just as small. “I’ll submit to you, I swear it! Just don’t let them smell it.”

Brock smiles and the snow swallows them up.

Bucky jolts awake.

“Hey,” Captain Rogers says, suddenly appearing before him. Bucky blinks and shakes his head. The snow is gone but his nose is still filled with the scent of it, throwing the whole room into some weird meld of his leftover nightmare and Stark tower. He shakes his head again, sniffles a little. “You okay, buddy?”

Bucky tries to speak but his voice comes out in a croak, and then a sudden, sharp pain from the base of his tail makes him moan. Captain Rogers pushes a glass of water into his hands, and Bucky sits up as best he can to gulp it down. He shivers from the cold and lets his chest expand, breathing in and coming fully awake. “Thank you, sir.” When he looks back at the glass, he sees two hands wrapped around it, one of them made of metal. “What—” The glass shatters and he jerks back with a gasp.

“Sorry!” The captain says, and starts plucking the glass shards off the blanket. “Damn it, sorry. Dr. Cho thought it’d be a worse shock if we just told you. Don’t move, I’ll get something for this.”

“Captain,” Bucky gulps. He thinks about turning the prosthetic hand over, and the prosthetic hand turns over, showing him a reflective, shiny palm. Bucky gasps again, without panic this time. “C-captain!”

Rogers chuckles, returning with a hand towel from the bathroom. “Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

Bucky looks down at the broken glass in his lap, watches as the water soaks into the fabric of the bedspread. He’s back in his own room in their suite. Comfortable. Cared for. He opens and closes the hand— _his_ hand—then makes a tight fist. It makes small noises with his actions, clicks and whirrs at the metal plates shift and align. He can feel the pressure of the fingers tensing against the inside of the palm, a shiver of movement as the plates lock into place. He experimentally plucks a few shards of glass from his lap, which he can feel between the metal fingertips, places them in the captain’s towel, then runs his new fingers along the wet spot on the blanket.

“I can feel the glass, but not the wet spot,” Bucky observes, going back and forth between touching the wet spot and just holding still, so he can stare at it. “No temperature at all.”

“You’ll be able to feel extreme heat and cold once the nerves fully adapt,” Captain Rogers explains, cleaning up the rest of the glass. It had broken in large pieces, so he leaves the towel on the side table to deal with later. “Dr. Cho said it could take up to a week.”

“I didn’t realize they’d attach it while I was under,” Bucky says.

“They weren’t going to, but you were out for a long time. You reacted a bit strongly to the implant.” Bucky looks up and catches the captain’s reassuring smile, then sees how tired he looks. The captain’s face is shiny with sweat, his hair flat on one side where he probably caught a few minutes of sleep, and his eyes are puffy and red. Still, he looks relaxed, his necktie hanging loose from his open collar, jacket all unbuttoned down the front. “It’s been about twelve hours. They wanted to make sure the nerves were still responsive enough to integrate into the arm without leaving the shoulder implant exposed much longer.”

“Oh.” Bucky looks back down at his new left hand. Wiggles the fingers. Extends the arm to look down the length of it, then brings it up and yup, he has no more left armpit. Even the phantom twinge from his stump is gone. So is his stump, now that he thinks about it. He rolls the arm over to look down the side and catches something he doesn’t expect. A candy red star, anodized on the metal of the shoulder. “What’s this?”

Steve’s expression goes glum, clearly too sleepy to show how upset it really makes him. “Apparently the original briefing packet included a mandate that I didn’t approve. Different stars for different branches of the service. White for SCF-a’s, blue for cats that serve in the Navy.”

“Red for us bullet catchers?” Bucky guesses with a grin, but frowns when Rogers doesn’t laugh.

“I didn’t know they were going to put that on there,” the captain explains, looking embarrassed by this, and more frustrated. “I don’t appreciate that they thought branding all the veterans coming through the program would be okay. Especially because it feels like someone went behind my back to do it. I would have asked you if that was something you’d want on your… on your body.”

Bucky shrugs (with _both_ fucking shoulders thank you very much.) “I don’t mind,” he says, and pulls the blanket aside now that all the glass is picked up. His legs feel a bit wobbly when he slides out of bed, and his tail still aches for some reason so he rubs at the root of it, where it connects with his lower back. He stands up tall in front of the full length mirror on the open closet door and turns around a few times. He doesn’t know how Dr. Cho did it, but the left shoulder is perfectly matched with his right. Symmetrical. He flexes the arm and tests the range of motion, and his ears twitch as he learns each little click and whir it makes as it fulfills his every command. “Looks kinda cool.”

“You’re not a Hot Wheels car,” Rogers argues, and Bucky catches his look in the reflection before the captain turns his eyes down and grumbles. “They can’t just stick logos on you just because it looks cool.”

“Jealous?” Bucky says with a grin. The captain’s face is red, and he keeps his eyes glued to the floor.

“Put on some pants, Buck.”

* * *

Steve nearly stands to help when he sees Bucky stagger out of bed, but settles back down when the cat’s tail finally balances properly and he straightens up on his own. Steve had to grab it so hard during Bucky’s spasms that he had been a little worried he injured the delicate appendage. Bucky rubs at his bare backside when he approaches the mirror, hand curling around the base as he rubs the top ridge with his thumb, but otherwise doesn’t seem all too bothered.

When Bucky hadn’t woken up when they expected, Dr. Cho ran tests (so many tests) on all his nerve endings, the tissue fusion, and even inspected the ugly bruise marking the ribs of his right side. Eventually, she declared him in perfect health. Apparently, Bucky had just needed the rest.

Bucky finds his pajamas on the chair opposite Steve, and steps into the pants, pulling them up with only his one hand before he remembers that he now has two. The same thing happens with the shirt, and he chuckles softly at himself, using his left hand deliberately to straighten the bottom hem. Bucky admires his reflection one more time, and laughs again.

“I look like,” Bucky pauses and his suddenly face falls.

“What is it, Buck?” Steve asks, and this time he does haul himself out of the chair when he sees Bucky sway from side to side, his playful optimism about the arm long gone.

“I look like a whole person again,” Bucky whispers.

Steve catches his expression in the mirror, torn and miserable and full of emotions that Steve feels he has no business being a part of. He wants to embrace the cat, to kiss the top of his head and whisper that things will be okay. Would have, if it hadn’t been for what happened the day before. “You were always a whole person,” Steve says instead, stopping just shy of entering Bucky’s personal space.

Bucky is still staring at himself in the mirror, his shiny new arm glistening like a treasure, flexing and moving as Bucky plays with the sensation of having an actual limb there, even while his face continues to crumple.

“Oh,” Bucky shudders, and swipes away tears. More come and his new arm stops moving, just long enough for him to rub his eyes with his right hand, eventually bringing his entire bare arm across his face. “Oh, no.”

“Bucky…” Steve takes a step closer, looks down to see Bucky’s tail coiling up defensively.

Bucky laughs through the tears. “It won’t stop,” he says, and he isn’t sobbing or crying, not really. It’s more like his eyes have sprung a leak. He no longer looks so anguished, just baffled as to where all the water is coming from. Bucky brings his left hand up, rubbing the persistent tears away with metal fingertips, and freezes when he catches the movement in the mirror. He stares at the contact on his cheek, the metal digits against his chin, then spins around, tearing his gaze away from the reflection and his ears fall to the side. He’s looking to Steve for help, while Steve feels utterly helpless. “Captain…”

“I’m here,” Steve says, and raises his hands, showing that he’d embrace Bucky, if he could. “You can let it out, Buck. You’ve been through enough. You can let it out.”

Bucky’s face twists in agony, and Steve’s heart twists right along with it. Bucky rolls his ears back and leans forward, planting his forehead right on Steve’s chest, then trembles with the tiny cries he allows himself.

Steve stands still, hands balled into tight fists in order to keep them held back. He looks down the line of Bucky’s exposed neck, his hair falling to the sides to reveal his tender scruff. It’s pale gray, spotted like his ears, and the sight of that vulnerable area melts what's left of Steve’s resolve. “I’m here,” he whispers, and cups the back of Bucky’s neck with his hand. Gently, using barely any pressure at all, he strokes his hand down, with the grain of the fur. The delicate fuzz is softer than he expected, so soft it almost feels like he’s touching nothing at all.

Bucky shivers at the contact, sinks further against Steve’s chest, and takes one intimate step closer. “Thank you, sir.”

Steve clicks his tongue. He’s _not_ worth it! “You might not thank me later,” he says, managing a self deprecating chuckle. “When you have to deal with all the press.”

“Ha,” Bucky says to the buttons on Steve’s jacket, his sarcasm buoying to the surface, right on cue. He pulls his head back from Steve’s chest, so Steve quickly removes his hand and shoves it away into his slacks pocket. “Sorry about that, sir.” Bucky says lamely and uses the back of his right hand to clear the moisture from both cheeks. One of his ears is folded back, while the other twitches irritably as he sorts himself out and shyly ducks his chin. Adorable.

The reaction is so endearing Steve winds up just staring at him for a moment, before he clears his throat. “Any time, pal. I seem to recall you did a good job putting up with my whining when we were in that fucking hole.”

Bucky laughs, swipes away one last tear that escaped when his nose scrunched up at the memory. “You weren’t so bad when you were conscious,” Bucky tells him. “But damn were you _heavy.”_

Steve’s so surprised that he bursts out laughing, and winds up laughing for a long time until his own eyes start to water.

 _Fuck,_ he realizes suddenly. He clamps his mouth shut after he meets Bucky’s glittering eyes and the blood rushes to his face. He’s _in love._

* * *

Just as Captain Rogers had predicted, things start moving fast the next day.

They start out first thing in the morning, recording interviews with Pepper and Dr. Cho where Bucky has very little to actually say. Captain Rogers tells him it’ll be edited into promotional videos later. Bucky goes through a series of exercises hooked up to maybe a million separate wires, a bundle of clamps shift every single one of the seventy-two interlocking plates, and some tiny needle the produces an electrical charge tests the EM shielding on the micromesh, all before lunch.

Captain Rogers hovers in the background during each poke and prod, glancing up from his tablet from time to time to keep an eye on Bucky. He looks worried, distracted, and his conversations with Private Lorraine wind up disjointed and repetitive. The press release is going out on Monday to announce the program, and apparently Rogers is arranging a trip for Bucky to visit his office at the Pentagon when the news goes out. In the meantime, there’s still the full press conference to schedule, social media to launch, and Bucky hears about a ‘tour itinerary’ more than once.

Apparently, part of his role as the model candidate for the program includes participating in a series of high profile visits to prearranged locations throughout the following week, with the intent to ‘humanize’ felines and gain sympathy for the President’s efforts in rehabilitating veteran SCFs. Bucky knew that being in the public eye was part of the deal from the beginning, but the thought of visiting a feline hospital makes him nervous. When he hears them talking about the National Zoo he actually flubs one of his tests, distracted by listening in to both sides of the captain’s conversation instead of Dr. Cho’s instructions. The fact that there’s a small film crew, capturing every moment, doesn’t help things any. Did Private Lorraine say ‘medal ceremony’?

Finally, Dr. Cho is done with him, and Bucky is handed his clothes. “You can go get dressed now,” she tells him, and motions towards the small prep room off the main lab. “We should be done for now, so you’re all set until your 30 day post-op visit.”

“Yes, doctor.” Bucky pauses when he reaches the door, catching a familiar scent that trails straight into the room. He glances over his shoulder, back into the lab where Dr. Cho is clearing her work station. The captain is tapping through an email on his tablet, not paying attention to Bucky for the moment. The little furrow between his eyebrows indicates full blown frustration with some work task or another so Bucky suppresses a groan and heads inside. Rogers has enough to worry about.

“Wasn’t sure if I’d get a chance to talk to you again,” Bucky says, after closing the door behind him.

Tony Stark spins around in the high backed chair, his arms out in a disappointed shrug. He’s holding a silver pen in one of his hands. “You ruined my dramatic self-reveal!”

“You smell like engine grease and old leather,” Bucky shoots back. “How could I miss it?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Tony says, pointing the pen in the air like he just had an _a-ha_ moment. “Lots of refined things smell like old leather. Classic books. Briefcases. Saddles. ...This chair—”

“What are you doing here, Tony?” Bucky sneers and folds his arms across his chest for the first time in five years.

“Just wanted to see how that clanker is doing,” he says, innocently turning his ears out and holding up his hands, the pen caught between two fingers so that he doesn’t have to put it down. “I heard the surgery was a bit rough on you.”

“You couldn’t do that with the humans in the room?”

Tony’s face freezes for three seconds before he drops the act. “Alright. Maybe I wanted to ask what Black Panther might have said to you.” Tony’s grin only hits one side of his face, mischievous, before he adds with a pout, “They won’t tell me anything.”

“Why?” Bucky bites off. “Was there something you _expected_ him to say to me?”

Tony’s teeth come out at that, and he shoots out of the chair. Bucky doesn’t react, unimpressed by the smaller cat’s bravado. “This isn’t a game. Don’t you even imply that Stark Industries is in any way connected with the Wakanda movement. Pepper risks enough as it is.”

Pepper? Bucky wonders what she has to do with it, but doesn’t let his surprise show. Instead he sneers at Tony’s concern. “So it’s a whole movement now?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Tony says. “I know you and the Good Captain out there are closer than you pretend.” All of Bucky’s thoughts come to a screeching halt and something funny happens with the arm. All the plates on the exterior of the bicep slam shut, like a house shuttering closed for a storm, and the sensation sends a shiver down his spine that he can’t hold back. “Thought so,” Tony says, pointing the tip of his pen at Bucky’s arm.

“It only happened once!” Bucky confesses, at the same time as Tony says, “Project Insight is—”

They both stare for a moment, before Bucky asks, “What is Project Insight?”

Tony blinks. “You? And…” he doesn’t say anything else though, apparently stunned into silence (for once.)

“Project Insight is?”

“Are you and that human...?” Tony tries again and Bucky feels all the blood rush to face. “Holy shit. Not what I had in—  Explains a lot, actually. But how come? You didn’t? Here?”

It takes a second for Bucky to parse all of Tony’s incomplete sentences. “Oh,” he says, when he figures out what he’s asking. “No. We haven’t—” And oh boy, is _that_ hard to put into words. “It was just a hug.”

Tony makes a small choking noise, his face struggling to settle on just how confused he is, then laughs outright. “A _hug?”_

“It was a very special hug!” Bucky insists and Tony laughs harder. Hell, when he says it like that it sounds stupid even to Bucky. He can feel his scruff tighten with embarrassment and he steps away from Tony, who collapses back into his chair with laughter, just to rub it in. Bucky ignores him, instead slipping out of his examination smock and sliding his underpants on— tail through the hole and everything. “Alright,” he says, interrupting Tony’s overreaction. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you still didn’t answer my question.”

Tony finally gets ahold of himself, and leans forward, elbows to knees while he swings his pen back and forth. “Look, this is actually a bit bigger than you probably expect. There’s dangerous things out there that both humans and cats have to deal with.”

Bucky looks up sharply, catching something timid in Tony’s voice, a seriousness he didn’t expect. “Do you mean Hydra?”

Tony’s eyes bulge at that, then he looks around the room as if he’s suddenly worried they are being watched. “What the hell do you know about Hydra?”

“I know you should trust Captain Rogers more than you do,” Bucky argues.

“Trust Captain—” Tony’s jaw clenches and he stands abruptly, closing the distance between them. “You really think you can trust that human?” Tony snatches Bucky’s metal wrist, and Bucky instinctively makes a fist and yanks it out of his grip. “Give it,” Tony says.

“No,” Bucky argues.

“Give it! I made the stupid thing!” Bucky’s jaw drops, and he’s so shocked that all Tony has to do is reach out and take it. He allows the other cat to turn the hand over, so that the palm is facing up between them. “Do you feel the connection here,” Tony says, raking his finger down the palm and meeting dead center. “It’s a little tight when you pull on it right? Not quite like the way your other hand feels?”

“Nothing about this feels like my other hand,” Bucky answers flatly, and lets his fingers flex in Tony’s hands.

“Oh for fucksake,” Tony sighs, and jabs his pen into the dead center of his metal palm. Bucky gasps at the sensation, like a sharp cramp in his fingers, then chokes when five sharp claws extend from the fingertips.

“What the fuck?” He breathes out, and holds the claws out easily when Tony removes the pen, understanding now how the muscle command works. It’s not comfortable, like a full extension of his back on tiptoes. Good for a stretch but not practical to sustain for long. “What the fuck?”

“Your precious captain didn’t tell you about those, did he?”

Bucky turns his hand over, extends his fingers straight, and the claws suddenly vanish with a snap. He winces, shakes his fingers, then turns his hand over again to stare at the palm. Bucky curls in his fingers again, concentrating, and the claws re-emerge. He can’t help but picture the RNS cat from Sakhalin, the one that gargled out _hail Hydra_ while he was drowning in his own blood. He had thought that cat was wearing gloves with claw attachments, but now he’s not so sure. He’s not so sure about Black Panther either, who clearly has claws of his own.

Bucky feels his ears fold protectively back as he thinks about the captain’s gentle embrace the night before, that heavy hand on the back of his scruff, and his heart constricts in his chest. “Fuck.”

“Good thing that special hug was before the surgery or you could have had a special accident,” Tony snarks.

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky says.

“They’re turning you into a weapon, Bucky,” Tony says, his somber tone bringing Bucky’s gaze up from the hand that’s starting to feel less and less like his own. It’s the first time Tony Stark has said his actual name. “Still think you can trust him?”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “I’ve always been a weapon. The captain is doing what he can to make sure I get my life back. If this is what it takes to serve again, then I’m happy for it.”

“You don’t look too happy about it,” Tony reasons and Bucky sneers, showing all his teeth and taking an aggressive step towards him. Tony bows his head, putting his ears to the side in submission. “Look I’m not trying to pick a fight. When they wanted that added to the specs I argued about it with Pepper. She tried to tell your Joint Staff friends that the engineering wouldn’t be feasible but they already had the specs. Crude, specs I had to adapt at the last minute,” Tony adds with a huff. “Basically written in crayon.”

Both cats freeze, their ears flicking to the door, and Tony sits back in the chair at the sound of a timid knock. The captain’s voice comes through clearly. “You okay in there Buck?”

“Tell him you’re naked,” Tony suggests in a harsh whisper. “Humans _hate_ that.”

“What?” Bucky hisses. “Why?”

“Trust me!”

“No!”

“Buck?” The captain says, voice spiked with worry.

“Fine, captain!” Bucky calls out, probably too loudly when the door handle clicks. Tony makes a few encouraging nods and Bucky rolls his eyes. “Be right there! Still getting dressed.”

The door halts, only open a fraction of an inch, before the captain pulls it shut. “Take your time,” Rogers says. Tony shows off all his teeth in a triumphant smile.

“I told you so,” he whispers, tossing his silver pen over his shoulder and then holds up two pointed fingers, like he’s framing his sentence in mid-air. “Literally my four favorite words.”

“What is Project Insight?” Bucky urgently asks, remembering to actually put his clothes on. He climbs into his jeans in a hurry, figuring he’s kept the captain waiting long enough. “What do you know about it?”

“What do you know about Hydra?” Tony counters, frowning.

“I know you can trust Captain Rogers,” Bucky hisses, and struggles for a moment with his fly before he remembers he has two hands. The metal fingers tap against the button but otherwise pulls it through without trouble, just like he had practiced that morning.

“Oh, right.” Tony says. “I forgot we were at a Mexican Standoff.”

Bucky makes a disgusted sound, shoving his sock feet into his boots. Lacing them is ridiculous with the metal fingers, so he just pulls them tight and ties them with his right hand alone, like he’s used to doing, stepping on one of the laces with the opposite foot as he makes the knot. “If you don’t tell me then fine, but don’t expect me to keep this a secret from Captain Rogers. I tell him everything.”

“Like he told you about the kitty cat claws in your shiny new fingers?” Tony says and curls his fingers into his palm, then paws at the air next to his face while his tail wags behind him. “Rawr.”

Bucky snaps his teeth next to Tony’s hand and Tony lays back his ears but retreats. “I’m telling you,” Bucky says. “Trust Captain Rogers. He can help you.”

“Help me?” Tony’s face twists into a skeptical frown. “Why would I need help from either of you?”

“Oh that’s right,” Bucky says, pulling the hem down on his shirt, feeling what he could of the fabric between his metal fingers. “How could I forget. Your name is on the side of the building.” He gives Tony an extra dirty look before he heads out.

* * *

Halfway through the ride back to DC, Steve finally comes up for air. He pinches the bridge of his nose while his eyes take their sweet time refocusing away from his cellphone, then fails to hold back a yawn. Coffee would be nice right about now. Or maybe a stiff drink. Oddly, he hasn’t thought much about it since he left the Capitol.

The novelty of Pepper’s luxury helicopter seems to no longer impress Bucky, who's been sitting silently beside him during the ride. They are headed back to DC by themselves, since Pepper had too much on her plate to make the commute, and they need to get back so that Steve could finish up last minute logistics for the campaign. There’s a lot to prepare in advance for Monday’s announcement.

The helicopter makes a small stutter, hitting another patch of turbulence, and Steve grips the edges of his seat when they both sway side to side. Bucky remains still and silent, and finally Steve has had enough. His eyes catch on the automated minibar, and turns to Bucky to make a joke about it being past four in the afternoon.

“You okay?” Steve asks instead, when he sees Bucky staring intently down at his metal palm. When he doesn’t look up Steve feels the tension thicken in the small cabin. He looks like he’s trying to hide behind the curtain of his long hair, even his ears cupping protectively against the back of his head. “Buck?”

“Are you trying to make me a weapon, sir?” Bucky says, and his fingers flex open with a tiny buzzing noise of the mechanical joints.

“Am I what?” Steve shakes his head, confused. “Is this about what Black Panther said to you? Or Tony Stark?”

“This is about what you’re _not_ telling me,” Bucky says and Steve feels his back stiffen. This isn’t the same kind of defiance that Bucky showed two days ago, when he unleashed all his passion and his fury against Steve in the Stark Tower stairwell. It’s just cold, frustrated anger.

“Buck, I don’t know what you mean.” Steve leans further over, hoping to catch a glimpse of Bucky’s face. He’s not sure if this is a question or an accusation, and he’s starting to worry it’s a little bit of both. “A weapon? Do you mean becoming an SCF again? It’s something we can talk about, once you’d adapted to your new arm.”

Bucky is quiet for a long time, and Steve can feel the weight of what he’s not daring to ask bounce along with them in the helicopter. “Huh,” Steve says, trying to break the ice, and leaning just far enough over to bump into Bucky’s shoulder “Is that a smudge on your new arm already? You’re not making a mess of that thing on purpose, just to get me to polish it for you, right?”

“Heh,” Bucky says, without amusement. “You mean this thing, sir?” Steve jerks back, heart leaping into his throat, when Bucky flexes his palm and his fingers extend into five, razor sharp blades.

“How!” Steve cries out, and without thinking takes Bucky’s metal hand into both of his. “What the fuck! I’ll call Pepper. Right now! I’ll have her turn this fucking bird around _tonight!”_ Steve holds Bucky’s hand on his knee with one hand when he picks up his phone from off the seat beside him. He’s so furious that he’s shaking when he unlocks his phone, can barely focus when he pulls Pepper’s contact information out of his address book. “Fuck!”

“You mean. You didn’t know?” Bucky asks, and Steve slams his phone back down on the seat next to him, too angry to dial properly.

“Of course not, Buck! This isn’t some stupid red star we can just buff out! It might be a prosthetic, but it’s meant to be yours! Not mine, not the DOD’s and certainly not Stark _fucking_ Industries’!” Bucky is staring at him now, eyes huge and round, like he still doesn’t get it. Steve feels himself boiling over when he realizes that Bucky really doesn’t, that his body has never been his and likely never will be. For Bucky it’s not unexpected that humans would attach something to him, without his consent, and eventually let him know what he’s supposed to do with it. Steve is so angry he could just. Just. Just. _“Fuck!”_

“Oh,” Bucky says, expression softening. He looks down at his hand, lets it go relaxed between his knees. The claws retract with an innocuous click, and his shoulders—both shoulders—slump. “Okay.”

Steve’s anger fizzles as that reaction sinks in. “You almost sound disappointed.”

“I’m… I’m not sure, sir. When Tony said you hid this from me on purpose, to make me a weapon. I was… well, not that you have to tell me everything but…” Bucky struggles for a few moments more before Steve understands.

“You felt betrayed. By me. Just for not telling you.”

Bucky blinks, nods, agreeing but unwilling to admit it out loud. “If you wanted to make me a proper soldier again, if this is what it took to be a hunter. I guess that wouldn’t be so bad, sir.”

Steve winces, more sympathetic to that sentiment that Bucky probably realizes. “Sometimes I don’t even feel like a proper soldier anymore,” he confesses, straightening and running his hand to flatten down the front of his uniform jacket, shiny brass buttons and all. “I was looking for you, after Sakhalin. After the hole. I was looking for you and I messed up.” When Steve thinks about that first, shitty year after he got back from medical leave, he doesn’t really consider his drunken benders or behavioral infractions his worst mistakes. Asking his father for help. That had clearly been his biggest mistake. “I’m not really built for all this propaganda and politics. This dancing monkey routine has really just been my punishment.”

“Is that why you drink so much, sir?”  

“Damn!” Steve laughs before he heaves a defeated sigh. “You really won’t let that go will you.”

“No, sir.”

Steve chuckles again as the tension retreats into the corners of the cabin. They sit in companionable silence for a little while before Bucky finally leans back in his seat. His tail was politely curled in his own lap, but it drops to the floor when he adjusts, curling at the tip so as not to hit the carpet. Then he holds up his metal hand, so that Steve could see it. “Do you know Tony Stark built it?”

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes. “I thought you knew better than to trust anything that cat says.”

Bucky glimpses back at him, and does a little half-shrug, noncommittal in his disagreement. “I think he makes a lot of things for Stark Industries. I think he acts the way he does so that people don't realize how smart he really is.” Steve watches Bucky, watching his new hand, and realizes Bucky is being dead serious. Bucky makes a fist before he asks, “Why do you think they would keep that a secret, sir?”

“Hm,” Steve considers for a moment before answering. “Well, Howard Stark had a reputation for his ingenuity but also for being kind of nuts. Sometimes his crazy ideas would work, like the new stealth fighter designs that the Air Force still uses. Sometimes it just blows up in his face. If he did teach Tony engineering… maybe people would have thought that was just another one of his crazy ideas. No one would really take the company seriously if his cat started making the designs for their major patents.”

Bucky’s ears droop. “But I’ve heard of other cats that work as scientists. Janet Van Dyne. First humanoid feline to have an honorary doctorate in particle physics. Works for Pym Technologies.”

Steve nods, surprised again by Bucky’s awareness of famous cats and their achievements. “But it’s not called Van Dyne Technologies. Hank Pym is still the human that runs their research division, and all the patents are under his name.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, defeated. “Thought so. Tony can brag all he wants about his name being on the side of the building. Doesn’t make him a real Stark.”

The mechanical buzz of Bucky’s hand is set off again when he goes back to opening and closing it, then wiggles each finger, makes his claws come out, then opens and closes it again. Steve watches Bucky toying with the engineering marvel of his left hand, wishing there was something he could say or do to bring Bucky out of his introspection.

“Well,” Steve starts slowly. “If you want to be a soldier again, I can see what I can do. This fancy uniform should be good for something.” Steve flicks the JCS pin on his front breast pocket, making the metal sing.

“I don’t really want to be an SCF, sir,” Bucky says, still watching his own hand. “I just want. I want to be yours.” Steve swallows. “Your hunter. You’re kind of a mess without me,” he adds, and shoots Steve with a cocky grin before he waves his claws at him. “Maybe these can help.”

“Your choice Buck,” Steve lies with a smile.

It’s not Bucky’s choice. Not really. Steve wishes he could give him that agency to make that decision, like he could give him the license, the arm, or the phone. The truth is, Steve is just as impotent to help Bucky as Bucky is himself. Neither of them could be here if it hadn’t been for the Department of Defense and their bullshit propaganda machine, it’s goals to make the president of the United States look like a human being while standing on the backs of felines.

For now that doesn’t really matter. Steve watches the relief and trust fill Bucky’s face with a smile, and Steve’s heart greedily takes it in, like it earned it.

He’s _so_ fucked.

* * *

 A very, very cranky kitty, thanks to the very, very generous talents of [Sulasaferoom](http://sulasaferoom.tumblr.com/post/157725760326/resinonao3-sulasaferoom-decided-that-murdering#notes)! Look at all that attitude in his tail O.O 


	14. The Winter Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States

The click of Bucky’s left hand against the polished cement stairs echo in the rarely used part of the building. The stairways aren’t really meant to be used since there happens to be a perfectly good elevator, but avoiding it allows Steve to not start and end his day with that adrenaline spike. Steve is exhausted, and even though Bucky must be as well he doesn’t seem to let that get in the way of bounding up the stairs on all fours. The cat outpaces him several times, actually coming back down when Steve takes too long to catch up, looking worried like he was afraid he’d lost him. Once he circles Steve he takes off again, only to repeat the process on the next landing.

“Bucky,” Steve complains. “Where is all this energy coming from? I demand you tell me your secret.”

“New arm,” Bucky says, coming back down to meet Steve on the last landing before they reach the fifth floor. “Dr. Cho said I had to quad with it to make sure the muscles in my shoulder adapt proper—” Bucky’s aforementioned metal hand skids on the landing when he lands at Steve’s side and he goes down in a heap, tumbling all the way over until he strikes the bannister. He’s folded over like a pretzel, tail hanging in his own face, and he glares at it, like it was to blame. “...ouch.”

Steve drops his bag and bursts out laughing. He’s worried Bucky hurt himself, but so shocked by the display that he can’t help it. “Oh my god,” he cries between gasps. “Are you okay? I’m so— ha _ha!_ So sorry!”

Bucky transfers his glare from his tail directly at Steve, then uncurls his spine to flop back over onto his feet. He braces with his left hand and it slips against the shiny floor again, nearly sending him back down before he catches himself. “Fine, sir,” he says curtly, but his face is a little red and Steve can tell he’s embarrassed. Steve is an asshole though, so that just makes him laugh harder. He literally points at Bucky and has to bend over, holding his aching stomach with his free hand. “I should tell the feline activists about this,” Bucky grumbles. “You’re so cruel to me.”

“They’d laugh too!” Steve practically howls and staggers after Bucky who apparently decided to walk on two legs the rest of the way. His hips sway as he climbs, and Steve has to wipe away tears to watch the pretty grey tail sway along with it, the tip twitching with annoyance. It’s obviously not Bucky’s preferred way of walking up stairs, so when he reaches the hallway he drops back down on all fours, carefully holding back his left hand until he’s tested it against the hall carpet. “We should really get you a glove for that thing,” Steve suggests, then laughs again. “All that hardwood flooring! Maybe I won’t have to put a bell on you after— ”

Steve’s amusement is abruptly cut off when he sees Bucky go rigid, all the muscles in his shoulders tensing up at once when he reaches the front door. “Someone went inside our apartment.”

Steve gently eases his duffel to the floor, drops his service cap on top of it, and takes a silent step up to Bucky’s shoulder, naturally falling into breach order just above him. The cat sweeps for scent up and down the doorframe, lead by his nose. “They’re gone. Scent is from yesterday. Human male.” Bucky takes a half step back and examines the handle. “The door wasn’t forced.”

“Shit.” Steve instantly thinks of Director Coulson with his sickly sweet smile and faceless army of spies. Any intelligence agency could be shady enough to bug his apartment while he was gone for a day and a half, let alone one that he didn’t even know existed until two weeks ago. Suddenly SHIELD and Hydra and Natasha’s warning seem all too real, and he realizes he hasn’t been as diligent as he should have been, or would have been if this had been a Russian battlefield and not his home. “Don’t say anything when we go inside,” he says. “Recon where they went, but assume someone is listening.”

“Understood, sir,” Bucky confirms.

Steve lays his back against the door, empty hands tense without a weapon, then looks down to the top of Bucky’s head, ears laid back aggressively. The only weapon he needs. He takes in a breath before he opens the door, still flat against it to protect the flat of his body. Before Steve enters, Bucky slips in on all fours under his arm, and immediately goes to prowling, first through the kitchen then into the living room.

As soon as he follows Bucky’s lead, Steve’s eyes fall on the Grey Goose bottle on the breakfast bar. “Stand down,” he gusts out with a relieved sigh. So much for not ending his day with a kick of adrenaline. “It was just my dad.”

Bucky rounds the corner of the sofa and gazes intently down the dim hallway. “Are you sure, sir?”

Steve picks up the small card next to the vodka bottle. Written in bold, black sharpie is a personal note, _‘Congrats on another successful mission, Captain’_ . He signed it _‘—Gen. Rogers’_ because Steve’s dad is that kind of military parent.

“I’m sure.” Steve tosses the card in the trash and picks up the bottle by the neck. It’s not even a good bottle of Grey Goose. Steve cracks it open anyway, pulling out a whiskey tumbler because he’s that kind of alcoholic. Bucky disappears for a while anyway, the telltale click of his hand sounding against the hardwood as he reconnoiters the rest of the apartment.

“Captain, he went into your bedroom,” Bucky says, popping back up over the breakfast bar. “Why would he—”

“Because he’s a fucking snoop, Buck,” Steve snaps, louder than he meant to. When he goes to tilt the vodka into the glass Bucky covers the top of it with his metal hand. Steve looks up, meeting Bucky’s wide, concerned eyes, then looks back down at the glass. Steve sighs, puts the bottle aside. “What am I doing?”

“It’s okay, sir,” Bucky says softly, like he’s worried he’s skirting an edge of how far he can push. “You don’t have to drink it.”

Steve _wants_ to drink it. His dad does this all the time, finding passive aggressive ways to remind Steve just how much he owes him. Skipping the rest of the evening in a drunken haze would be easier than trying to deal with whatever comes next.

“You know, captain,” Bucky says. “After spending so much time as a feral I’ve become a very badly behaved cat. Undisciplined. Self destructive. Really typical for cats who try to live without keepers, right? I’ve even had a problem drinking this stuff,” Bucky nudges the bottle with his metal fingertip and it inches away from Steve with a tiny clink. “It’s a shame, but maybe I can’t be trusted around it.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Steve says, but he’s amused at the attempt. “I don’t need you to protect me from my dad.”

Bucky flinches in surprise. “Why do you need to be protected from your father at all?”

“That’s a long conversation. Probably one for a therapist.” Steve considers the bottle, and sighs. “Well. Why not.” He swings around and upends it into the sink. Bucky curls up his nose, then sneezes as the alcohol glugs out of the bottle. Steve smiles at the adorable sound he makes, and his shoulders sag with a sense of relief. “Screw you and your bullshit congratulations, dad. Not much of a vodka man anyway...”

“You really don’t like him, sir?” Bucky asks as Steve tosses the bottle into the recycling can under his counter.

“What’s to like?” Steve snorts, kicking the drawer back in. “He’s an abusive, alcoholic politician who thinks he’s a soldier. He couldn’t control my mom so he decided to control me, even after I told him to shove this promotion up his ass. He wrote me up for insubordination for that. Fucking asshole.” Steve clamps his mouth shut with a click, but Bucky just smiles, ducks his head onto his arms where they folded over the counter. He understands Steve’s sudden embarrassment at oversharing, without Steve having to say anything. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear about my daddy issues.”

“I don’t mind, sir. It’s interesting to hear about human families. Not quite like it is on TV, is it.” Bucky blinks slowly, his chin still resting on his arms. He looks relaxed, and maybe finally run out of all that energy he had earlier.

“What about your family?” Steve asks, which prompts Bucky to sit up suddenly.

“I don’t have one.”

Steve is confused. It's not like Bucky to lie to him but he knows that isn't true. “Didn’t you say your dad taught you how to play baseball? You weren’t born in the service like most SCFs, right? Drafted?”

Bucky’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “I don’t have one, sir.”

There’s something hard in Bucky’s response that Steve hasn’t heard before, an unspoken pain in the tone of his voice and the set to his shoulders. Steve quickly puts together what that means, and feels like an asshole for pushing.

Once a cat switches keepers they are rarely able to maintain contact with whatever family they may have come from. Most kept cats are born within the CFC breeding program, licensed at a young age, and usually kept throughout their lives. Steve saw Bucky’s original keepers listed on his CFC record. A wealthy family in New York by the name of Barnes, which he had been born into naturally by their own kept queen. Steve hadn’t thought much about it at the time since his one, desperate goal was to find Bucky himself. Bucky’s family likely stayed there when he had gone off to serve.

Cats are usually born in litters of two’s and three’s, meaning Bucky probably has living siblings, even if his parents are gone. There’d likely be very little chance of reconnecting with them if they are licensed out to private keepers, but Steve still could have checked when he had been going through all of Bucky’s records. It hadn’t even occurred to him to see if maybe Bucky had tried to go back to the home he knew before the military, however briefly.

“Sorry,” Steve says and Bucky clicks his tongue.

“There you go again, sir,” he says, and pokes Steve’s elbow with his metal finger, nudging it an inch over the smooth counter just like he had the vodka bottle. “You can’t apologize for everything.”

Steve feels something reckless build up in his throat, a confession that wants to sneak out, but his phone startles him away from that obvious mistake when it rings in his pocket. “This is Captain Rogers,” he answers, and gives Bucky a smile when Private Lorraine pulls him into yet another work conversation.

Bucky gives him a soft smile and ducks his head back into his arms. Understanding, like always.

* * *

Bucky drops down from the bar stool in the kitchen after Rogers takes his phone call, and tries not to grump over the sound his palm makes striking the hardwood floor.

That’s going to get old, fast.

He clambers up into the familiar chair, still perfectly scented like himself, and yawns. It’s already been such a long day and for Captain Rogers it’s hardly over. Bucky watches him from across the room as he holds his phone against his shoulder with the side of his face and digs his tablet out of his bag. It’s weird to see him working in this manner, always with his phone or his tablet or his laptop, instead of pouring over maps, plotting tactical operations or managing base training. It doesn’t quite fit Bucky’s idea of Captain Rogers. The big, strong human just seems underutilized fighting nothing but an endless inbox of unread emails.

Bucky doesn’t really mind that the captain had asked about his family, not in the sense that he’s upset or angry at him for being curious. Cats aren’t supposed to care about their own families—pedigrees, to use the CFCs term—so he winds up feeling exposed, chest aching whenever he thinks of where he came from.

Bucky hasn’t seen his father since he was six years old, has no idea what kind of cat he even was. All Bucky remembers is his scent, his pale gray fur, his big, booming laughter. He at least saw his mom fifteen years ago, when his father had died and the Army had actually allowed Bucky to take a furlough to visit the Barnes. The family had always been nice, from what he remembered, and they spoke to him gently when he arrived. Becca was there, but she had already been relicensed at that point, and for ten times the price Bucky got since her spots appeared earlier.

Bucky thinks about his mother and the hollow in his chest opens further so he hides his face tightly into the shadow of his arms. She had been cold with grief and barely looked at Bucky, refused to return his probing licks. Her ears never softened to his voice, her tail stayed stiff behind her, and the longer he stayed there the more he and Becca realized their mother might not even recognize them. That was probably the worst feeling Bucky had ever experienced. Even worse than when he lost his arm. Even worse than when Dr. Lukin dragged him from his cell at the CFC, furious at his refusal to participate in their trials any longer. At the time, he had threatened Bucky that after his euthanization they’d cut off his tail and sell it as a scarf to a rich man in Tokyo.

A shiver runs down Bucky’s tail at the thought of that, and he wonders what kind of future he would have had if those stupid spots had shown up earlier, like Becca’s. The Barnes family probably wouldn’t have let the Army take him if they realized how valuable he would be. He would have led a life of pampered seclusion in the States instead of training to become a soldier, defending his country against the threats of the RNS.

Bucky checks back in on the captain, and wraps himself in the relief he feels whenever he sees the human. Healthy. Home. Alive. Bucky never would have been able to protect him if he had been sold off as some thoroughbred companion to a rich, boring New Yorker. His metal arm whispers as he adjusts to watch, and he reminds himself that it was worth it.

Rogers is puttering around in the kitchen while he’s on the phone, pokes his nose into the fridge before giving Bucky a bored look and holding up a sushi takeout menu. Bucky nods enthusiastically. Rogers isn't a bad cook, but… _sushi._

Tuning out the conversation is difficult, so Bucky hears the captain’s plans for Bucky’s Monday visit to the Pentagon, the slight debate on what level of security access Bucky have, and something about an SCF uniform. Bucky looks at his metal arm, for the thousandth time, and wonders what it’d be like trying to fit the stiff prosthetic under the hardened leather armor of his old uniform.

The plates shift quickly up and down, like a shiver, and he rolls the shoulder in response to the strange tick. The skin is still tender where it joins with the metal implant, red and a little swollen. He has special cream he needs to apply to the edges to make sure the graft heals right. It’s already more comfortable than his stump had been, but it’s still an odd sensation when the metal starts to itch. The plates shift again, louder this time, and Bucky angrily clicks his tongue at it, like it did that on purpose just to annoy him. Dr. Cho said the involuntary movements would lessen as his nervous system adapts to the implant, so it won’t last forever. Still. Shut up, arm.

“You okay over there?” Captain Rogers asks, bringing Bucky’s attention back across the room. He’s holding his phone away from his ear, maybe with Private Lorraine waiting on the other end. “You look like you want to bite that thing.”

He does not! Does he? “Fine, sir,” he quickly answers, and puts his head down on the arm of the chair. He yawns, pulls his feet in and his tail tightens around him as he arches his back in a stretch. His fatigue has been hitting him in regular waves since he woke up from his surgery, and an obnoxious number of naps keep creeping up on him.

Like right now.

* * *

Steve’s managed to complete his online order for sushi delivery by the time he finishes his last call with Director Fury. He feels particularly triumphant that he remembered to order inari, the little vegetarian appetizers that are ironically Bucky’s favorite. Everything is in motion for Monday’s announcement, the press release scheduled to go out at 0930 Eastern Standard Time, the conference scheduled for 1100, and Bucky’s clearance is confirmed in the visitor registry. Steve’s mind is still jumbled up in thoughts of work as he paces around the apartment, even after he tosses his overnight bag into his room and then starts the hunt for his service cap, which seems to have magically disappeared again.

“Hey Buck, have you seen my—” Steve slows when he passes through the living room after spotting the sleeping cat on the chair. Bucky’s been dropping every few hours into twenty minute cat naps. Dr. Cho had assured him it’s normal for a cat his size, and it helps the healing process after the major surgery. Bucky is twisted over on the easy chair, tail limp across his own knees, shirt pulled up to expose his belly. Bucky either sleeps curled into a furry little ball, or sprawled out like an artist’s French girl. Steve snorts at that thought, then closes his mouth with his own hand to make sure he doesn’t laugh out loud and wake him. Instead, he eases into the corner of the couch closest to Bucky and sighs, overwhelmed by the sudden contentment that washes over him.

Bucky’s head comes up, and he blinks slowly as he flops back over, bringing his tail up and shivering. “Colder here than in New York,” he remarks, curling up tight but clearly dissatisfied with the metal arm across his own chest.

“Hm,” Steve says. Now that he’s sitting down he really does feel it. “I haven’t turned the heat on since we left. You cold?”

“Arm is,” Bucky answers, sounding cranky about it. Steve pulls his head from the back of the couch, mentally preparing to stand up so that he could adjust the thermostat when Bucky suddenly plops onto the floor. His left hand slips against the hardwood, but he catches himself and crawls up on the couch next to Steve.

Bucky rolls over, flat on his back, and before Steve knows what’s happening, pushes his head and shoulders into Steve’s lap. “This okay for now, sir?”

Steve swallows and his brain shouts _NO!_ while his heart shouts _YES!_

“For now,” Steve hedges, and relaxes as the heat of Bucky’s body spreads from his lap, all the way to the tips of his toes. Bucky’s fingers curl against his own chest as he adjusts, scootching up so that his shoulders rest comfortable against Steve’s thigh. His ears make several turns, folding back and then settling forward when Bucky goes still. His tail makes one or two lazy curls where it hangs over Steve’s knee before dropping off into sleep.

With nowhere else to put it, Steve rests his arm across Bucky’s waist and lets the other relax on the couch’s armrest. He stiffens when he hears his phone vibrate, all the way on the opposite end of the sofa near Bucky’s sock feet. “Shit,” he whispers. The sound might wake Bucky up, but he can’t actually reach it to turn it off. Then it occurs to him that Bucky’s nap shouldn’t exactly be his priority. “...shit.”

He’s trapped.

Bucky stirs, only enough to turn slightly and nuzzle his face towards Steve’s unoccupied hand. For once, a triggered memory of the time they spent in the fucking hole doesn’t make Steve break out into a sweat. It had been colder and much, much darker than Steve’s apartment, but Bucky had trapped the heat between their bodies by crawling into Steve’s lap, making sure he didn’t freeze to death. Steve had pet his ears then, only after Bucky had granted him permission with a tiny lick into his hand.

Steve takes the risk and gently pushes the hair away from Bucky’s face, then tentatively strokes the tip of one of those grey, fuzzy ears. The light touch makes it flicker away from his finger so he tries again, this time stroking the spot where Bucky’s ear joins his scalp.

Bucky rewards him with a purr almost immediately. The deep rumble vibrates in Steve’s belly and across his lap, and Steve wants to replace that old, fond memory from his past with this new, better one. Bucky is healthy, hopefully happy, and Steve isn’t bleeding to death. Plus they aren’t buried alive in an abandoned heat sink for a nuclear reactor. All in all much better off. Maybe a little hungry.

Steve leans his head back into the soft cushions, blinking up at the ceiling. He still has so much to do, so much to plan before the release goes out on Monday. It’s already the late afternoon and his colleagues at the Pentagon will soon be going offline for the weekend.

Had he remembered to email Sam the latest updated proposal for Veteran’s Affairs? Maybe he should give Private Lorraine one last call, before he totally checks out. Where had his service cap wound up?

His fingers scritch into some secret spot behind Bucky’s ear, and his head moves slightly in Steve’s lap. His sleepy purring suddenly goes much, much deeper and Steve smiles.

Nope, he thinks. Trapped. Work will just have to wait until Monday.

* * *

Bucky leaps off the couch when someone knocks at the door, landing carefully enough not to skid on his metal hand.

“Jesus! Fuck!” Rogers slurs, staggering upright, then flopping against the back of the sofa. “What?”

The knocking sounds again and Bucky prowls forward. “Probably the sushi, sir.”

“Oh,” Rogers says, blowing out a huge breath. He had probably fallen asleep, and humans are a mess when they first wake up. “Right. Let me. My wallet. Right.”

Bucky posts near the front door when Rogers finally answers it and narrows his eyes when he spots the girl outside. “Oh!” She giggles, tilting up the bill of the captain’s service cap on her own head. “This must be yours.”

Rogers blinks owlishly. “How in the hell—” he cuts himself off and clears his throat. “Sorry, ma’am. Yes, that’s mine. Sorry,” he says again, when she hands it to him. Bucky rolls his eyes and wants to flick the captain’s ear for all that apologizing. “This thing never seems to stay put,” he says, as if the cap left itself in the hallway, and she giggles again.

“Thanks!” She says, after Rogers passes her a few folded bills. “Next time remember you can add the tip straight through the app.”

“I don’t mind skipping a step,” the captain says when he takes both paper bags from her. “Makes sure it gets to the right person.”

“Plus avoids the tax man,” the girl adds with a conspiratory wink, then her face falls like she just now noticed the uniform all over again. “Oh! I mean… sorry! I didn’t—”

The captain gives her a good natured wink. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She laughs nervously again, red as a tomato. “Have a good night,” she looks past Rogers and grins right at Bucky. “Cute cat!” Then she’s off, down the hall to the elevators.

“Can’t believe I left this in the hall,” Rogers admonishes himself quietly, and drops it on the side table. “Those things are like eighty bucks a piece.”

“She thought I was cute,” Bucky says, and makes an extra long stretch out of the process of standing upright, then swings around the breakfast bar so he can take up his usual seat on one of the stools.

“Everyone thinks you’re cute,” the captain snorts. “Doesn’t make it true.”

Funny. Considering Rogers is the one who can’t keep his hands off Bucky’s ears. Bucky’s snarky thought backfires when his face heats at the memory, and his ears flutter when he shivers, because they are fucking ridiculous. He reaches up and scratches one, trying to cover, but it’s too late.

“Still cold?” The captain asks when he catches the movement. He is pulling plastic containers out of the brown paper bags and Bucky is immediately distracted. Inside he can already see colorful slivers of fish on top of delicate bundles of rice, and tightly wrapped in seaweed. The scents swirl away from the containers, so strong and beautiful he can nearly see it. Bucky spots his precious, sweet inari and smiles fondly over the thought that the captain remembered such a small detail. His hunger turns into something else as he picks up the captain’s scent, his mouth already salivating at the thought. Rogers clicks his tongue and steps around the breakfast bar, walking past Bucky towards the hall. “I’ll turn up that thermostat.”

When the captain passes by Bucky chases his scent, turning into it as he walks away. He’s locked on to the human, and his tail irritably knocks against the underside of the counter, urging Bucky up and after him. Rogers fiddles with the control box at the end of the hallway, then Bucky turns back around to follow his scent when he returns to the kitchen. The whole thing takes about thirty seconds, but Bucky suddenly feels extremely frustrated, like the captain had stalled getting their dinner out on purpose just to scent mark his own apartment.

Anxiety builds up inside him like a slowly leaking faucet fills up a shallow pan. Bucky isn’t sure where it came from, but before he knows it he blurts out, “Captain do you think things between us will ever change?”

Rogers freezes with a jar of soy sauce in one hand and a bundle of chopsticks in the other. He already laid out the containers between them, open so that they could pick apart the rolls from opposites sides of the breakfast bar. “Change how?”

Bucky isn’t sure. He touches the license at his throat, wondering why he even asked, while Rogers fills the small sauce dishes and mixes in the wasabi (just a touch for Bucky, a huge blob in his own that makes Bucky’s nose tingle.) “I don’t know,” he sighs. “I think I’m just hungry.”

Rogers laughs. “Well, that’s what the sushi is for. And the sashimi and the temaki and the tempura and the gyoza. And I think there’s a soba salad over here, some teriyaki salmon. That’s in the fridge for you for later though, since I know you’ll be hungry again in like an hour.”

Ah, Bucky thinks after the captain’s tirade. He’s being teased again.

It’s odd how nice it is to be hassled by the human. If Rogers was a cat Bucky wouldn’t find it nearly so endearing, and probably would have lost his patience almost immediately. Admittedly, like he had with Tony Stark.

There are a lot of things about Rogers that are charming only because he’s a human, like his short, fluffy hair that never lays flat after he takes off his cap. Mainly it’s his authority, and utterly enormous size, both of which Bucky would have had immediate problems with if he had met him in the tenement. They’d be natural rivals, like he and Brock had been back on Sakhalin.

Rogers presents Bucky a pair of chopsticks with little bunny rabbits decorating the handles and Bucky rethinks that conclusion. Rogers would have been _doomed_ in a feline tenement. He’d trust the wrong alley cat and wake up in a bathtub full of ice, missing a kidney.

Bucky accepts his chopsticks with an incline of his head and bows his ears, then hesitates for a few beats before he tucks into his meal. He starts with the inari, because of course, but only gets a few bites in before he realizes that Rogers is staring, his own chopsticks only hovering over the tempura basket. “Something the matter, sir?”

“If you want to ask me something, you know you can. Right?” Rogers asks, his face pinched with worry. “I know some of this has been happening a little fast. If you need to slow down. If you need. Just. You can ask me.”

“I know, sir.” Bucky says, then watches the captain struggle for a few more seconds before asking, “Is there something _you_ would like to ask _me?”_

Rogers puts his chopsticks down, and braces himself with both hands flat against the counter top. “Are you happy?”

Bucky laughs. “Of course. Look at all this sushi.” The captain sure was being dramatic over such a simple question.

“No, Buck. I don’t mean about dinner. I mean, are you really happy? Being the model candidate for the JCS program. Living here, with me. The arm, even with that damn star and those claws they snuck in there. Just _all_ of it.”

Bucky puts his half eaten piece of inari back down into the little plastic container. “I’m happy, captain. I mean. I’m not unhappy, if that’s what you mean.” He wishes he could point out that the part he likes most is living with Captain Rogers.

“That’s not what I mean. Being ‘not unhappy’ isn’t the same thing as being happy.”

“I think you’ll have to explain it to me, sir.” Bucky watches the captain struggle the same way he always does when he’s conflicted about something he doesn’t feel he has the right to ask. “Maybe you’re trying to ask me something else...”

Rogers huffs out a frustrated laugh that Bucky takes as a warning; cynicism doesn’t look good on him. “The Red Room,” he says, but it comes out half garbled, like his mouth didn’t know how to form the words. “Dr. Lukin said you opted in.”

Oh.

Bucky is quiet for a long time, staring at the beautiful sushi platter, his mind hitching on those words over and over again, like a cog with an offset tooth.

“It’s just, when you asked if things would ever change between us. I couldn’t help but feel it’s because maybe you’re not happy. That maybe there was something else you wanted out of this that I’m not giving you. I’d do it, if you asked. I’d give you anything you nee—”

“This isn’t great dinnertime conversation,” Bucky interrupts. He wanted to state that firmly, with defiance, but it comes out just above a whisper. He’s too distracted to parse all of the captain’s talk about giving him ‘what he wants’ by the human’s heady scent and intimate teasing. The captain stops all the same, and gives him a break with an awkward smile.

“Sorry. I learned a lot about you this past week. I guess it makes it harder to imagine… Sorry,” he says again, then the motherfucker _dares_ to steal the second half of Bucky’s inari with sniper worthy chopstick skills. “Not sorry!”

Bucky cries out a half formed swear, and Rogers waggles his eyebrows up and down while he chews. With his mouth open. Because he’s an animal. “Damn these are pretty good.”

As soon as dinner is over, Rogers opens up his laptop to check on some last minute ‘work things’, so Bucky takes the opportunity to climb into the shower. As he stands under the steaming spray, scrubbing his fingers through his hair with his ears are folded tightly back, he tries his hardest not to think about Captain Rogers. He continues not-thinking while he soaps over his back, his neck, his right underarm, and then curses when his metal armpit mangles the bar of soap like a cheese grater after he accidentally washes the left. He finishes rinsing most of the soap chunks from between the metal places, then soaps over his privates and immediately hisses when his not-thinking utterly fails.

“No, no, no,” he whispers, and cranks the shower handle all the way over so the water immediately drops in temperature. Masturbating is never a problem, but he certainly wouldn’t do it thinking about the human he lives with. If Bucky isn’t careful, he’ll wind up pushing himself out of season.

Wouldn’t that be fucking convenient.

* * *

Steve slaps his laptop shut and heaves a sigh. He’s done all he can now that the work week is over and no one at the Pentagon is returning his emails. The 0900-1700 work week was one of the strange aspects of serving at home that really took him off guard. It’s such a foreign idea compared to combat zones, and a military occupation where you aren’t always on duty. He really shouldn’t have wasted the last hours of his afternoon napping. Steve’s in the same corner of the couch and his hand automatically drifts over to feel the empty space beside him where Bucky had been, and he’s not sure if he regrets it entirely.

The thought makes Steve curious about where the cat might be. It’s not unusual for Bucky to be so silent, but it seems like ages since Steve last saw him. Plus the shower had shut off a while ago, and he still hadn’t emerged for his second dinner. He better check on him.

Steam had drifted into the hall from the open bathroom door, so Steve doesn’t think much about poking his head in to check. Steve can’t help but blurt out a small cry of shock with what he sees. Bucky is in front of the mirror, his back bent almost double as he applies lotion along the edge of his implant scar. Bucky catches his reflection in the mirror, head turned at an impossible angle. “Everything okay, sir?”

“Um,” Steve looks up and down Bucky’s coiled spine. His damp tail is standing out as a counterweight, and sways a little as he adjusts. “Forget sometimes how flexible you are.”

Bucky lowers his arm and stretches his neck, wincing slightly. “Not flexible enough,” he huffs. “I can’t actually see the entire area I need to cover since the prosthetic is still so stiff in the shoulder.”

“Let me,” Steve offers, and tries not to notice Bucky’s bare bottom when his tail swishes back into a relaxed position as the cat untangles his spine. If Bucky doesn’t blush over his own nudity then Steve’s just going to have to get used to it. Bucky passes off the jar of cream and turns back around to face the mirror. “Tell me if it hurts?”

Bucky’s head tilts to the right, giving Steve easy access to his implant site. “It’s still pretty numb,” he says, but Steve notices the tiny intake of breath and the jump in his shoulders when the cream touches skin. He leans in closer and feels the heat radiating off of Bucky’s shower warmed skin. Steve tries not to inhale too deeply to catch Bucky’s fresh shower scent, instead focusing on his task. He’s looked closely at Bucky’s scars before but this is the first time he’s actually touched them, so he tries to be delicate as he gently dabs the cream over the raised lines. The grafting process removed a few layers of keloid from the area, leaving them pink and fresh, the skin delicate around the ragged edges as if the injury had just happened a week ago. Steve can easily identify the worst of them, the ones that caused Bucky the worst pain and likely bled the most at the time. One cuts deep into his shoulder blade in three parallel slashes that he traces with his own fingers.

“Is this where the RNS cats got you?” Steve pauses when Bucky doesn’t say anything right away. “They had claws too?”

“The one from before the hole did,” Bucky replies, then pulls up his hair with one arm, exposing more scars in his damp scruff. Steve hadn’t noticed those before, since the fluffy fur hid the white, raised flesh when it was dry.

“I remember when that happened,” Steve says. Now that they both occupy a shared memory it seems prudent to lower their voices, Steve speaking just above a whisper as the memory unspools. The smell of vaporized cement from the RNS mortars. The _rat-tat-tat_ bursts of M4 machinegun fire from the US forces. The sight of tracer rounds, zipping through the night sky over the darkened Sakhalin docks. The dark shape that shot out from between the shipping containers as he and Captain Ward advanced to the warehouse for Zola’s extraction. “That was the _hail Hydra_ cat, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says.

Steve gently nudges Bucky’s elbow, and he raises his arm when he gets the hint so that Steve can make sure the cream is spread along the lines just under his metal armpit. Steve sneaks a peek at the bruise Panther left, relieved to see it fading into a nice pale green. It’s healing fast, with no sign that Bucky seriously injured any ribs. Dr. Cho had done a number of tests and x-rays, reassured him that Bucky would be fine. Still. Steve had worried.

“I talked to a few people in the machine shops at the Pentagon,” he says, trying to change the subject. “They think they can get that star buffed out. I’ll deal with Pepper tomorrow. See if we can make a timeline to have the claws removed. I’m still pissed that she snuck that in there without asking us.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says again, but Steve catches his damp ears drooping.

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“It’s just,” Bucky takes the pot of cream back from Steve and drops it in a toiletries bag marked with the Stark Industries logo. “I guess I don’t actually mind. They’re easy to control and it makes me feel like… like I have a purpose again?”

“Oh, Bucky,” Steve wants to wrap his arms around Bucky’s waist, pull him in for a hug. But that wouldn’t be appropriate and Bucky is naked and Steve needs to get ahold of himself. “You don’t need a weapon to have a purpose.”

“I’m a hunting cat,” Bucky insists, and his tail shakes out a line of tension. “It’s what I was trained for. All my life...”

“Okay,” Steve says, showing Bucky his palms. He knows he’ll likely never fully understand Bucky’s experience, but he’s not going to be a hypocrite and force Bucky in one direction when he clearly wants to go the other. “It’s your body. Your decision.”

Bucky brightens, but almost immediately looks a little shy. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll. Um,” Steve clears his throat. “I’ll leave you to get dressed. Are you sure you don’t want me to have that star buffed out?”

“You keep your filthy human hands away from my star,” Bucky says, protectively slapping his right hand over the small red shape and giving Steve a nasty look.

Steve backs out of the bathroom but he’s smiling, because he can see Bucky’s tail bouncing up and down and knows when his cat is playing with him.

* * *

Bucky finds an extra order of inari tucked into the bag with his second dinner.

Captain Rogers is an absolute jerk.

Once he’s finally full, Bucky cleans up his dishes and starts the dishwasher, just like Rogers showed him, before he reclaims his spot on the sofa. He leaves the seat on the end open, where the cushions smell the most like Rogers, and lies impatiently flat on his back, waiting for the human to return from his own shower. He turns over, frustrated by his persistent loneliness, and rises up on his elbows to check his phone.

Bucky had mostly ignored all of Tony’s texts since he confirmed earlier that their helicopter didn’t actually crash, and no, he didn’t try the warm sake from the minibar. He really isn’t sure why he had encouraged the hyperactive housecat at all once he received a string of endless cat face emoji in reply. The last text Tony had sent caught his attention though, a simple question without any yellow faces: _Do you trust him like I trust her?_

It doesn’t take a genius to know who Tony is referring to. Pepper’s scent was all over his private lounge and his workshop. Plus he had sent a text after the whole whiskey incident of a bouquet of flowers the size of fourth of July fireworks, asking if Bucky would forgive him like Pepper had if he had some sent to his room. Tony and her were obviously close. Bucky considers the possibility of knowing someone in a feliphile relationship and his ears droop. Impossible. Unrealistic. Pepper and Tony Stark are rich, and can fly off to Japan to enjoy private time in Tony’s leased apartment. Bucky answers the text with one of his own: _Yes._

He adds a stern cat face emoji, figuring it couldn’t hurt to speak Tony’s language.

Rogers finally emerges from the bathroom and Bucky tucks his phone away. He yawns, stretches out his fingers—even the metal ones—then curls his tail around himself and closes his eyes. The human comes in smelling like soap and freshly laundered towels, wearing stretched out old sweatpants that say US ARMY in bold block lettering down one leg.

“Did you wait up for me?” He asks, but he’s being snotty about it so Bucky curls up tighter, pretending he hadn't. The captain eases into the open seat anyway, pretending to be quiet, like he doesn’t want to disturb his fake sleeping cat. “You have a perfectly good bed back there you know.”

“Are you still mad at Pepper Potts, sir?” Bucky asks, not opening his eyes, and Rogers huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, Buck. That whole time we were there they said nothing about those claws. Not even a warning about how you should use them. That’s as good as lying.”

Bucky is quiet for some time after that, weighing his guilt for not sticking up for the human with what he knows about Tony’s relationship with her. If their situations were reversed, he’d want Tony to stick up for the captain. “Um. You don’t really have to be pissed. At Pepper I mean. I think someone higher in the chain of command told her to do it.”

“What?” Bucky can feel the captain go stiff with tension next to him. “How do you know?”

“Tony said they tried to push back on it. Said they tried to make an excuse that the engineering wouldn’t be feasible, but someone at the DOD already had the specs. Also, I think Black Panther has the same ones. Between that and the Hydra cat on Sakhalin, I think there might be more to this than just some feature Stark Industries was trying to sneak past us.”

“Shit.”

“Also, I know that Tony’s… well, Tony,” Bucky starts, and he brings his head up, just enough to crack open an eye to peek at the captain’s reaction. “I just think maybe we can trust him.”

Only one of Steve’s eyebrows go up, that ugly cynicism returning for a brief moment before he shakes his head. “That cat wouldn’t shut up for five seconds the entire time we were there. I’m surprised he managed to keep his involvement in Stark Industries R&D a secret for so long, let alone trust him with anything we know about Hydra.”

“Er,” Bucky winces. He forgot about that part. “Sorry sir, he already knew about Hydra.”

The captain’s mouth drops and Bucky detects a flash of anger. “Why didn’t you say so! When did you even have this conversation?”

“Right before we left, sir.” Bucky matches the captain’s stern response with one of his own, reminding him that only a few hours ago he had thought the captain had snuck weapons into his prosthetic without telling him. The captain knows that cats keep each other's secrets, even if they had been on better terms at the time.

“Shit…”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“No, no,” Rogers says, waving the apology away. “It’s fine. I understand. I just realized the one person I need to ask about all this told me to stop asking about all this. I don’t know if I can get in touch with her so soon. Maybe I can ask Colonel Rhodes, but if he brokered this directly with Director Fury or someone else at the DOD he won’t likely tell me anything.” The captain stops for a moment to think, then scrubs his face with his hands and leans back into the cushions. “Is there anything else you and Tony talked about?”

“Just one thing,” Bucky admits. “He mentioned Project Insight. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No. Did he say anything about it? What branch it might be from or if it’s even military? Could it be intelligence or politics maybe?”

“Oh, um.” Bucky now remembers how he and Tony had ended that conversation, after Bucky outed himself and Tony wouldn’t let the matter drop before the captain had come knocking on the door. “No, sir. We kind of argued after that.”

“You got in another fight?” The captain’s tone goes flat, as if he can’t believe that it had only taken one trip to New York for Bucky to take up drinking and fighting all with the same, stupid cat.

“Not a fight, sir. A disagreement.” Was that really what it had been? It was more like they both couldn’t tell if they could trust the other with their most closely held secrets, and for good reason. A Mexican Standoff as Tony had called it. “Sort of.”

Rogers gets that stubborn set to his jaw that tells Bucky he won’t let it go. “About what?”

Bucky rolls over so that he’s flat on his back, looking up into the captain’s round, human eyes. “About _us.”_

Rogers closes his mouth so fast his teeth click together. “Ah. ‘Us.’ That’s complicated.”

“Not really,” Bucky says, and leaves off saying _‘because it never happened, right?’_ It comes out a little pouty anyway and Rogers looks away, planting his chin on his hand, and doesn’t answer.

Bucky hates that he had caused this pensive moment, and wants to reach out to him but the words don’t come. Instead, he extends his neck and butts the top of his head against the captain’s hip, his ears dropped submissively to the side.

“Yeah,” Rogers says softly, and runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair. It’s still damp, but the captain’s fingers easily thread through it before they find the edge of his ear and start to scritch. “I’m sorry too.”

Eyes still closed, Bucky smiles and lets his purr out. It’s strange to open his throat to the compulsion around someone else, strange to feel so safe and cared for that it wouldn’t get him ridiculed. Bucky had known of cats that had been stabbed in their sleep for it. A sign of weakness, frailty. Rogers doesn’t have any of those feline specific egos, and Bucky sure as hell isn’t going to educate him on how infantile the sound is.

“Come here,” Rogers says quietly, and pats his thigh. Bucky obeys, nuzzling under his arm into his lap, and sighs once his tail is safely back around him.

“I guess we are a little complicated, sir.” Bucky admits, after the captain’s hand returned to stroke his ear.

“Mmm,” Rogers mumbles in reply. “How about we make it a little more simple. When we’re alone together like this I want you to call me Steve.”

Bucky is quiet for a long time, purring into the captain’s belly, until he finally takes in a breath and says, “Steeeeve.” He can tell he pulled his lips back too far, and the word came out through his teeth. It’s a strange enough name to say, and even stranger knowing it’s the same name the captain’s friends use to address him. The captain’s _family._

Steve.

Bucky can feel his own purr filling up the living room, and soon the captain’s breathing drops off into a steady rhythm to match. It’s like they both just discovered a tiny oasis of privacy within the captain’s home, where Bucky can call him Steve and no one will ever be the wiser.

It’s not a private apartment in Kyoto, but it makes him feel rich anyway.

* * *

Steve is _exhausted._

It’s not fair that the weekend seemed to slip through his fingers like so much hourglass sand, and Monday morning seems to have already started off on fire.

Not even 0800, and he’s already had to send Bucky to his office to change after they finally got an SCF uniform that would fit him, had to track down a lost memo from the Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, re-locate eleven members of the JCS press corps when the briefing room he wanted was retasked for an emergency executive meeting, and then beg Private Lorraine to move his car when the on duty attendant called to tell him he had parked in a spot designated for electric vehicles.

Steve is _fucking_ exhausted.

So of course he isn’t paying full attention when he rounds the corner from D-5 ring into the main connector corridor, and has to stop just short of colliding with Director Coulson.

“Captain Rogers,” the man says, with his neutrally pleasant smile, even while Steve is flustered from just barely avoiding dropping his tablet. “I’m glad I bumped into you.”

Har.

“Director,” Steve says with a nod, but can already tell he wants something. It’s like Coulson had just been standing there, waiting for Steve to turn the corner. “If you’d like to schedule a meeting, it would be great if you could ask Private Lorraine to—”

“No need to bother Natalie,” he says, and Steve hopes he doesn’t give himself away with a frown. Spies always talk like that, showing off that they know everything about everyone. Steve hates it. “I’ll walk with you. This will only take a minute.”

Steve wishes he could find some reason to decline, but Director Fury made it perfectly clear he is supposed to work with this man. Steve is also starting to worry how his cooperation will impact Bucky’s future after the campaign is over, but that thought makes him uncomfortable so he’s been pushing it away. Now, he’s face to face—literally—with the spy master, and has no choice but to play his little game.

“Let’s walk and talk,” Steve suggests, because he has places he needs to be.

“I want to know more about what happened at Stark Industries,” Coulson says, cutting right to the chase after falling into step beside him.

So far so good. “I can probably have a copy of the official police report released to us.”

“I read the official report,” Coulson says, in a tone that suggests Steve should have known better than to imply he hadn’t. “I’m asking for yours. How was Bucky after the fight? Did Panther hurt him?”

Steve considers lying for only a second before he goes with the truth. It’d be pointless, and maybe freely offering the full truth will help build Coulson’s trust that Steve doesn’t feel like he has a spider crawling on the back of his neck whenever the man smiles. “Only bruised. Bucky said Panther was likely holding back. Said he could have killed him, if he wanted.”

“Good,” Coulson says. “Did he say anything? To Bucky directly, I mean.”

“He told Bucky not to trust me,” Steve answers, salutes the guard at the main office doors to the JCS. “That I was going to use him like a puppet.”

Coulson nods. “Did he said you specifically? _You_ are going to use him as a puppet?”

Steve frowns. That’s an interesting distinction. “No. He said POTUS, specifically.”

Coulson nods again. “Good. Bucky’s loyalty to you sounds like it’s even stronger after the trip. We were counting on that.”

Steve stops short, and Coulson takes a step and a half before he realizes Steve isn’t still beside him. “You mean loyalty to the country, right?”

Coulson’s eyebrows go up. “Of course. For him there shouldn’t be much difference.”

It makes sense, since Steve is essentially Bucky’s handler, but something about the way Coulson smiles encouragingly makes Steve feel like he’s covering. A very slight backtrack for an unintentional slip up. Only, Steve doubts Coulson is the sort of spy who slips up, and he thinks about Bucky’s conversation from the helicopter. He had confessed that he didn’t really want to be a soldier again, except to stay with Steve.

Steve starts walking again, trying to shake off the paranoia as they finally make it through the JCS floor to stop outside of the J-5 offices. “It might make it harder to get Bucky into Panther’s organization, what with them fighting the first time they met.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Coulson says with a shrug, and Steve’s paranoia spikes again. They pass through the main doors and Steve checks his tablet again. He has three minutes left to make it to Fury’s office.

“You don’t seem very surprised that Panther broke into our suite.”

“Don’t worry about that either,” Coulson says, punctuating that one with a smile. “We’re confident that when the time comes, Bucky will do what he’s been trained for and protect his human keepers. Your old colleague from Operation Lemurian Star has high praises for the cat’s patriotism.”

“Who?” Steve stops in his tracks and Coulson lazily turns back to regard him, as if he hadn’t expected that response.

“Oh, didn’t I mention? Grant Ward is one of my top field agents. He said you were quite the team on Sakhalin.”

Director Coulson keeps speaking after that, but Steve can’t hear him past the blood rushing in his ears. He needs to tell Bucky immediately, and pats his back pocket for the phone that had been locked away since they entered the secured area. Steve immediately turns and heads to his own office, then stops short when Coulson says his name. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“I said you might want to check a muzzle out of the armor locker on the first floor.” Coulson winks, then turns to leave the way they came. “Just wanted to give you a friendly heads up.”

* * *

Bucky startles awake when Rogers bustles into his office, and stretches languidly when he unfolds from the seat of the captain’s chair.

“Buck! Thank god. Put this on,” he says, and pushes a feline muzzle across his own desk.

“...what?” Bucky says, freezing mid-stretch. He’s so confused he forgets his decorum. He had been handed a new SCF uniform and told to change in the captain’s office while the press corps gathered in some briefing room, then Rogers had disappeared for almost forty five minutes. He stares at the muzzle for a beat too long, waiting for the captain’s request to make sense.

“I know I said you’d never have to wear one of these,” he tries to explain, and looks over his shoulder, like he’s afraid someone had followed him into his office. “It’s just protocol. If you don’t put it on we’re both going to walk into a heap of shit.”

Bucky takes the muzzle, following the order, but his heart is in his throat and he doesn’t get much further than that. “You said—”

“I know what I said Buck,” Rogers snaps. “But we’re _not_ in public. Please just put it on.”

“I- I can’t.” Maybe it’s the combination of the captain’s nervous energy and the bewildering, half-broken promise in his hands, but Bucky is already finding it hard to breathe, even without the muzzle in place.

“Bucky, that is an _order—”_

“Sir, I can’t put it on myself,” Bucky desperately explains, and shoves the muzzle back into the captain’s hands. “It’s not designed for us to be able to.”

The captain blinks. “Shit, sorry.” He moves quickly, unhooking the back latches one by one as he rounds the desk. “I swear I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

“I understand, sir,” Bucky says, except the last part of what he says is swallowed up in the darkness of the muzzle as it closes in around the bottom half of his face. He flinches back, instinctively trying to pull away, then forces himself still while Rogers roughly pulls it closed behind him.

“Sorry, sorry,” the captain whispers, and Bucky hears the locks tumble into place at the base of his skull. Rogers steps back and holds Bucky’s chin in both hands. “I’ll take it off right after, I swear.”

Bucky pulls his chin out of the captain’s light touch, but the muzzle limits his range of motion and pinches the fur of his scruff. He forgot how much these fucking suck, and his ears flicker in annoyance. It’s like being halfway blinded and halfway deafened, both at the same time, after his nose and mouth get completely covered and all the scents that fill out the world around him are abruptly cut off. Even though he can breathe through the muzzle’s filter everything comes in stale, tinged with charcoal and plastic and something a little sweet that makes him nauseous.

“Ready?” Rogers asks, but Bucky refuses answer him. The captain’s face makes a pained twist, and Bucky doesn’t care, and glares back at the human over the sturdy, black shell.

Rogers opens his mouth to say something more, but then his office door swings open and he spins around. Two men in black plain cut suits enter the captain’s office, posting just inside the doorway like soldiers. A third man in a light gray suit and red tie pauses just before entering, and gives first Rogers then Bucky a silky smile. Bucky immediately shifts where he stands, his shoulder falling just in front of Steve’s own.

Captain Rogers’ whole body goes taut, snapping into a formal salute like a zipper sliding shut. The man in the red tie salutes lazily in return and gives a good natured chuckle before tucking his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “Captain Rogers,” he says, and Bucky’s ears go back at the sound. “Good to see you again. Your father said you have some great things coming up with our little program.”

“Yes, sir,” Rogers replies. The man’s gaze falls on Bucky again, only for a second, before going back to the captain.

“Ah, this must be our model candidate,” the man says, and before he even realizes he’s moving, Rogers tugs Bucky to a halt with a firm hand on his arm. “Uh oh,” the man says, smiling warmly back at Bucky like he didn’t notice his aggressive posture. “Maybe I should have brought a saucer of milk.”

The captain gives a sycophantic laugh and pulls Bucky back another step. “Sorry, sir. It’s been a long morning. Bucky will surely charm our internal press corps at the eleven hundred briefing.” Rogers goes on to talk about the upcoming press release, due to hit the news wire in an hour, his voice watery and nervous. Bucky already feels disoriented, cut off from using his nose or mouth to scent this strange man and his sugary sweet smile, but hearing the proud, ambitious captain unravel in front of the man is even more confusing. They talk for a few more minutes, mostly about the program, and the man in the red tie finally turns to leave.

“Oh, Captain Rogers,” he says. “What did you decide to call the program?”

“We’re just referring it as the SCF Benefit for now, sir.”

The man makes a face, like that’s a good idea but not something he cares for. Patronizing. “Let’s call it the Winter Soldier program.”

“Sir?”

“Well, our model candidate is a veteran of Sakhalin, right? All those cold winters, closing out the year. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” He smiles. Bucky hates him. “Kind of poetic.”

The captain nods immediately. “Yes, sir. I’ll have the press release copy edited immediately and resubmit it for transmission before our deadline.”

With that the man finally leaves, along with the two others. It takes a few moments before the captain releases a huge breath and sags, before collapsing altogether in his chair. “Holy shit that was close,” he says, but Bucky stopped paying attention to him.

Instead, he drops down to all fours and pokes his head out of the captain’s office to watch the strange trio walk away. His tail lashes irritably back and forth when he doesn’t spot them anywhere on the floor, just Private Lorraine’s desk and the offices beyond. He comes back into the room and stretches his neck, still pressing against the uncomfortable muzzle.

“Hey, let me get that off you,” the captain says, and kneels down next to him. Bucky doesn’t want to make it easy for him though, so he stays on all fours and continues to glare. “I’m so sorry Buck. I’m sure you understand though?” Bucky doesn’t answer.

Let him suffer.

The muzzle finally falls off and Bucky gasps, sucking in as much as he can through his nose, than immediately feels every hair on his body stand up on end. The captain’s voice comes to him from a faraway place, meaningless as he tries to get his attention. Finally, Bucky staggers upright, and that’s when he notices the captain calling his name.

“Bucky!” Rogers says, holding him by the shoulders. “Where’d you go, pal? You okay?”

“C-captain,” Bucky says, when his jaw finally unlocks. “Who was that?”

Rogers smirks, then coughs out a laugh. “You’re joking,” he says, but frowns when Bucky doesn’t smile. “Bucky you didn’t know who that was?”

“He was one of them,” Bucky says, shaking his head and not quite answering the captain’s question. He looks out of the door again, scanning the office one more time. “Or the men in the black suits.” He’s sweating so hard under his uniform that he feels like he might be drowning in it, or freezing, buried under snow. His tail shivers and he tries to catch his breath.

“Bucky that was Alexander _Pierce,”_ Rogers says archly. Bucky is still confused, still horrified by being trapped in this small box with no exterior windows. He can’t believe Rogers doesn’t recognize it, doesn’t recognize that they are back on Sakhalin, in that hole with no way out.

“Who was that, sir?” Bucky asks again, begging Rogers to understand his real question.

Rogers raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “The President of the United States.”

* * *

 

Since things are about to get real ugly, real fast, I thought I'd share a reminder from earlier in the chapter when they have their fluffy moment on the couch. Enjoy (while you can, mwahaha!) Art by the incredible [Kayaczek](http://kayaczek.tumblr.com/post/157036482687/got-commissioned-by-resinonao3-3-thank-you-so)! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super important author's note: I ordered sushi like three times throughout the week while I was writing this chapter. I am w e a k.


	15. What Leaves a Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of PTSD and panic attacks in this chapter.
> 
> Glossary:  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

One of Steve’s major areas of study when he completed Officer Candidate School was Field Tactics & Combat Strategy. He was even awarded a special commendation when he developed a new technique for urban convoy defense procedures, after his own team suffered heavy losses when the convoy commander had ignored his warning about a seemingly innocuous mailbox. The public mailboxes bolted to street corners hadn’t been used as anything other than urinals for over a decade, yet a well dressed man avoiding eye contact with the American soldiers making their way down the street just decided it was time to mail a letter? Bucky would have spotted it right away. Three soldiers and two contractors had been KIA that day, a dozen more wounded. Three civilians who had stopped to gawk got hit by the second wave of ball bearings from the timed release payload.

Ensuring such a thing never happens again is why he wants to keep his boots on the ground. When a similar situation— this time with Bucky at his side— showed signs of going south, he had been in a position to make the call. Thanks to the revised urban convoy defense procedures, everyone walked away with their lives. It’s how he earned his nickname of “Star Spangled Man With a Plan.” It’s a nickname he hates, but begrudgingly accepts its accuracy.

However, when it comes to developing tactics for making amends with an astronomically pissed off humanoid feline, Steve has no plan whatsoever. No tactic and no training could have possibly prepared him for the cold fury he came home with that night. The situation is completely FUBAR.

Bucky had taken the press briefing in stride, charmed the three reporters preselected to ask him one question each, and even gave a cocky smile to the cameramen who wanted him to show off his license. Steve thinks it stands out like a red slash across his throat, overlayed on his black SCF uniform, and continues to regret the decision that the JCS custom ordered over a thousand units of them, all in ‘Patriotic Red.’ The rest of the day had been busy, chaotic, but generally successful. The press had latched onto the President’s name for the initiative, and Lorraine had let him know #wintersoldier was trending. Steve doesn’t appreciate the coverage essentially ignoring Bucky’s individuality, but Bucky himself doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t seem to mind anything after the President had left Steve’s office, but Steve could tell something was wrong.

As soon as they are alone together, Bucky’s entire body language shuts him out. The car ride home is so silent that Steve can hear the tip of Bucky’s tail irritably thumping against the interior panel of the passenger door. Bucky stalks carefully up the stairs ahead of Steve, just like before, only he seems more annoyed than worried when Steve falls behind. When Steve opens his front door, Bucky pushes past him and inspects the apartment, then before Steve has even unbuttoned his coat the cat slips into the hall without saying a word.

Steve doesn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon.

Bucky probably took a cat nap wherever he wound up, Steve thinks, finally opening his Here Kitty app and tapping on the seek icon. He lets the map load while he pulls the first rib-eye steak out of the oven. He had been planning on ordering simple delivery after such a long day, but figured he owed Bucky a something special after forcing that muzzle on him. Steve’s shoulders give a sympathetic twitch when he remembers that little flinch the cat had made, even after agreeing to wear it.

“Fuck…” Steve whispers, staring down at the sizzling beef. He drops the meat thermometer in the sink and it bangs angrily at against the stainless steel, like it’s also fed up with his behavior. The dish of potatoes is next out of the oven, mixed in with garlic seasoned broccoli, then he tosses the pan of shrimp one more time. He finishes the whole dish off with a healthy squeeze of lemon.

Surf and turf is a pretty good apology dinner, right?

Here Kitty chimes and Steve chews the inside of his lip when he sees the little icon light up that tells him Bucky on the rooftop common area, near the pool and the fire pit. He opens up his text log, and is halfway through typing out that dinner is ready when he takes a look back at his dozen other unanswered texts.

“Fuck,” he says again. He doesn’t want to hunt Bucky down like a misbehaving child, but enough is enough. Bucky might want space but he needs to eat, and Steve will be damned if he has to take care of a sick cat all night because Bucky gets into something on his own that isn’t good for him. Steve leaves everything on low temp in the oven to keep warm, grabs a jacket and heads out. He has to ignore his elevator jitters, too impatient to take the stairs. He rides it past the three floors above his own in silence, letting his mind go blank, then gasps when the doors finally open on the terrace level. Apparently, he had been holding his breath the entire ride up. He really hates the elevators in his own building.

It’s not too hard to find Bucky. He’s wearing a blue jacket over his SCF uniform, effectively hiding his distinctive metal arm, and leaning his elbows on the high ledge overlooking the city streets below. His chin is tucked into his arms, his ears are little hatchets on the side of his head, and his tail is lashing behind him in hard, deliberate strikes, like a whip. Some of Steve’s neighbors are using the patio area, closed off against the October chill with full length windows, laughing loudly over too much wine and not paying him or the cat any attention at all.

Steve sucks in a breath of cold air to toughen himself up. “Hey, pal. Pretty sure the building is secure by now. Want to cool it with the recon?” Bucky doesn’t answer the gentle teasing, except that his ears stand up just long enough for Steve to know he heard him. The rooftop is walled in by a series of tall, wide crenelations, so Steve leans back against the rise where Bucky is leaning out. It’s windy this close to the wall, and he can hear the traffic far below them. Steve waits for a moment, hoping Bucky might break the uncomfortable silence, before he sags in defeat. “Look, I apologized about the muzzle, Bucky. I don’t know what else you expect me to do it about it. I don’t make the laws.”

Bucky’s tail goes still, but the cat doesn’t look up. Instead he blinks quickly and turns his head away, so that Steve can’t even make out the side of his face.

“I’m… I’m also sorry I made a promise I couldn’t keep.” Steve doesn’t know what else he can apologize for at this point, but he starts to feel a bit of frustration over Bucky’s refusal to speak to him. “Ungelded males have to be muzzled in the presence of the President and the Secret Service,” he explains again, even though he’s sure Bucky already knows this. “It’s protocol.” Still no response. “Like saluting him, which really wouldn’t have killed you to do, you know. You were trained to—”

“He smelled like Arnim Zola,” Bucky says. His voice is quiet, subdued, but goes through Steve’s chest like a bullet. That explains a lot. The nervous scenting, the prowling, the cold shoulder. All of Bucky’s behavior had been off after Steve had pulled away the muzzle. Steve had mistaken it for anger when really it had been…

“You’re afraid.”

Bucky doesn’t answer, except his head bows even lower into his tightly folded arms, as if he could hide within them from the rest of the world instead of looking out at it.

“Look, Buck. I get it. We went through a horrible thing in that hole. Then right after I shoved that thing on your face you got a reminder of that scent? It’s understandable if you got scared.” Steve isn’t sure what else to say. Bucky still doesn’t move, other than to pull his tail in closer to his own body, like he’s cold. Steve gives Bucky’s shoulder a little nudge with his elbow and is immediately reminded that it’s made out of metal. Still, he smiles and chuckles softly, trying to lighten the mood. “Pretty crazy that the President of the United States has the same scent as that Swedish psychopath, huh?”

Bucky straightens up at that, eyes open wide in shock. “You really don’t get it, do you. That thing you called the President of the United States, that you saluted and groveled in front of, that _wasn’t_ Alexander Pierce. That was Arnim Zola. The terrorist. The fucking monster from the hole.”

Steve’s mind does a funny little flip, so he laughs because he has no idea how else he’s supposed to react to that statement. “Okay? I mean, I guess I’ll forgive you for saying I groveled but—”

“It was him! Part of him! All of him!” Bucky gasps and backs up a few steps. “You don’t even believe me do you? The fucking President is a _monster,_ Steve!”

Steve hisses and looks around quickly, just in case someone could have overheard that. His neighbors continue laughing and ignoring them, safely tucked away in the noise of their little glass gazebo. “Lower your voice, Bucky. And Jesus Christ, watch what you say about the goddamn President of the United States! So he smells like Zola did, so what? It doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure plenty of people smell like other people.”

“No one smells like anyone else, _”_ Bucky hisses. “That’s not how it works. Everyone’s scent is unique. _Everyone._ Just not the President. As soon as he left the room I could just feel it. He can’t smell the same as Zola without _being_ Zola!”

“Stop it,” Steve says. “What you’re saying is ridiculous.”

“What happened in the hole is ridiculous,” Bucky reasons, but Steve has had enough. Bucky is just having a panicked reaction to catching a scent similar to Zola’s. Sure there had been something weird about the man. A mutation or an augmentation— the RNS were known for unethical and highly illegal genetic manipulation, so it might have just been an experiment that went wrong. But the President of the United States? Buck is clearly just having a panic reaction. PTSD from a strong memory, triggered by a similar scent, like how Steve feels every time he steps foot in an elevator.

“This is my fault,” Steve says. “I should have just told POTUS you weren’t ready. We could have done the announcement without you there.”

“I’m glad I was there! We wouldn’t know otherwise—”

“Bucky, enough. It’s just a coincidence.”

“But this is exactly—”

“Enough!” Steve snaps hard enough for Bucky to take another step back and bow his head submissively, like he’s expecting a strike. Steve’s anger burns hot enough that he doesn’t even notice what he’s done for the seconds that pass by without either of them moving. It’d taken days—over a week—to build up enough trust for Bucky to forego decorum and call him by his first name, but he just erased all of that with a careless shout. What Bucky is saying is ridiculous at best, treasonous at worst, and utterly impossible. Still, Steve didn’t have to handle it like a stubborn, overbearing, arrogant, hard headed…

...like his _father._

“Shit.” Steve says, and Bucky glances up at him through his lowered eyelashes. Steve can see the blue of his eyes retreated to tiny rings around the edges of scared, dark pools. “Bucky I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted. Why don’t we go back home? I made surf and turf. Let’s talk about this…” He can already see Bucky isn’t really responding, not in the same way he would have if they had a disagreement like this a day before. “Please?”

“Yes, sir.”

The answer is cool, straightforward, polite. Bucky doesn’t look up. It stings. “Good, okay.” Steve tries not to let it show how he feels the distance opening up between them like a physical pain. “Come on, then.”

Bucky falls a step ahead of him, taking point like always, and Steve is only somewhat comforted thinking that at least Bucky still feels he’s worth protecting. Knowing about Steve’s aversion to the elevators, Bucky heads straight for the stairs, and waits for Steve on each landing as they head down to the fifth floor. Steve rescues the meal from the oven, sighs over his dried out rib-eyes, but plates it all with an extra helping of shrimp for Bucky, just in case.

Dinner is tense and miserable. Bucky takes a shower, leaving Steve to be tense and miserable by himself on the couch, hoping Bucky will join him. Over the weekend they had fallen into a habit of— well, he wouldn’t quite call it ‘cuddling’—together after meals. More like, ‘affectionate contact.’

Bucky slept so much that he spent half the time in his own chair (thinking of it as anything other than Bucky’s chair at this point doesn’t occur to Steve) while Steve worked and ran errands. The other half of the time was better, when he crawled half into Steve’s lap and napped while Steve watched TV or read the news on his tablet, purring up a storm. He had completely decimated Steve’s protein powder, so they paid a visit to the Trader Joe’s around the corner from his building to shop for more smoothie ingredients.

Halfway through their trip, Steve realized it was the first time they had done something like this in public since Bucky had panicked at Target. There were even several cats working in the store, stocking shelves and cleaning the aisles. Bucky mostly ignored other humanoid felines in public, but something about coming across the quiet, hard working cats had been reassuring to see. A woman holding an infant asked one if they stocked vegan baby food, and even thanked him after he told her where to find it. Not everything between cats and humans had to be a struggle.

It had all felt so very civilian. It was certainly the first time Steve could ever have said that he enjoyed grocery shopping. It had also been the first time that Steve came to the bitter conclusion that he was not looking forward to the completed renovations of SCF housing at Fort McNair. Steve knows he’s being selfish, hoping the construction project stalls so that Bucky can continue to live with him. That weekend had probably one of the best he’s had in years. Maybe even ever. Could he really blame himself for wanting to hang onto that a bit longer?

Steve hears the shower go silent and crosses his arms, nervous. He wishes he could apologize to Bucky but even moreso, wishes he could understand better what has the cat so panicked. Steve relies on his judgement of character a lot, both in the field and here in DC, and every one of his instincts tell him the President of the United States could be completely and utterly trusted. It grates against something inside him to hear that Alexander Pierce could be anything else. Steve knows better than anyone that he’s an imperfect president—and hell, Steve didn’t vote for him, convinced that his plan to pull military occupation from Russia would be a complete disaster— but to think he could be anything like Zola…

Steve hisses when a shiver of pain zips from his head down to his thigh, where the scar twinges with a phantom pain of his old, horrible injury. “Are you okay, sir?”

Steve goes from clutching his leg to his chest, startled back when Bucky’s face pops up over the end of the couch. “Jesus fuck! Oh my god, Bucky. You sure got used to slipping around on that hand of yours.”

Bucky raises his left hand, curling his fingers in a mechanical little wave. He’s wearing a black leather glove on it, fingerless, with a padded palm. “Private Lorraine gave it to me.”

Way to go Natalie, Steve thinks. She’s got his back even when she’s not around. Everyone likes Natalie, even Bucky. “She’s one hell of an assistant. I actually put her in for a promotion last week, after all her help with your CFC paperwork.”

Bucky stands up to his full height and looks down at the couch cushions like he’s not sure if he trusts them quite yet.

“It’s, um.” Steve unfolds his arms. “Kind of cold here by myself. Do you want to talk?” Bucky doesn’t answer and Steve feels a lump forming in his throat. “I really am sorry for yelling, Buck. For a second there I forgot who I was. I shouldn’t have even dared speak to you that way.”

Bucky glances away. “I’m… I’m sorry too, sir. I forget sometimes that you don’t— that you _can’t_ see a lot of things. Not like we do. I’ve never had to explain it before.” Bucky does one of his older half-shrugs, like he’s forgotten for a moment that he now has two arms. “No one’s ever wanted to listen, anyway.”

“I’ll listen,” Steve says, and Bucky looks up when his voice cracks. “I promise, I’ll listen. Please just. Explain to me what you’re afraid of. We’ll figure this out.”

Bucky opens his mouth with a slight intake of breath, like he’s going to say something, then changes his mind and shakes his head. “I’m actually. I need to go to bed, sir. If that’s alright?”

Steve isn’t sure what hurts more, the fact that Bucky refused or the fact that he asked permission like he hadn’t freely set his own hours all weekend. “Steve, Buck. Call me Steve.”

“Yes, Steve,” Bucky says, but clearly just replaced the word _sir_ with _Steve._ It makes no difference in his tone or body language.

Steve stays up a little longer, watching meaningless television and wondering where the fuck it had all gone wrong.

* * *

Bucky curls up in the middle of the bed and drops off immediately into a cat nap. It’s easy, after the long day he’s had without nearly enough sleep. As soon as he wakes up he’s hungry again, so he sneaks into the kitchen, only to find that Rogers isn’t on the sofa. He stills long enough to hear the captain’s unobtrusive presence in his own bedroom for once.

It doesn’t take long for him to spot the little covered plate in the center of the fridge’s top shelf, topped with a bright yellow post-it with his name on it. Inside he finds another steak and a small bowl of shrimp, this time with a garlic aioli sauce that Rogers must have kept separate from the main lemon sauce. He always does little things for his second dinner like that to add variety to the leftovers. He also got wise to the fact that Bucky never reheats his food, so he doesn’t bother to separate the meat into microwave safe dishes like he did the first couple of nights. Bucky chews on the ribeye bone once he’s finished, cracking it with his back teeth to suck out the marrow before he cleans up, starts the dishwasher and heads back to his room.

As soon as he reaches the end of the hall, he hears a faint groan, and turns towards the captain’s door. It’s open a crack, likely so that Bucky could tell where he had been just in case he was needed. Bucky presses his face through, forcing the door open wider, and instantly sees the captain is in the middle of a nightmare. On top of the tiny groans, the room is laced with the smell of fear sweat, and when Bucky gets close enough he can hear the human’s racing heart.

“Captain,” he whispers, unsure if he should startle him awake or not. Sometimes that jolt can be worse than letting a nightmare run its course. “Steve?” Still nothing.

Bucky carefully crawls on top of the bedspread, inching along with the tiniest movements possible to make sure he doesn’t disturb the sleeping human, and he catches sight of his face. Rogers must be fighting something horrible in his dream, his face twisted with fear and shiny with sweat, his whole body a tight line of tension.

Bucky reaches out instinctively, and gently brushes the captain’s lank hair back from his red forehead. His scent is strong in this room, his bed full of it, his body radiating heat and the familiarity of his touch. Bucky feels slightly drunk on it, and sleep tugs at him again, even through the anxiety of seeing Rogers suffer.

Bucky relaxes on his stomach beside him, unsure what else he can do but watch. “Steve, you’re having a nightmare,” he whispers quietly. Right when the captain makes a tiny, pathetic whimper like he’s answering him, and tosses his head aside. Bucky presses the top of his head against the exposed side of the captain’s sweaty face, and his purr comes up immediately.

Rogers gasps and sighs out his name, then Bucky gulps when the human loops his arms around him as he rolls over, nearly on top of him. Bucky doesn’t pull back, but instead continues to purr when Rogers puts his face into his ears and gulps in relief. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispers as he holds him, so fiercely that Bucky can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest. Rogers is big and hot and soaked with sweat, but Bucky feels comfortable in that embrace. It’s not very often that he feels like the one being protected. “I promise.”

Then Rogers kisses the top of his head and pulls him tight enough to make Bucky squeak. “Sorry, I— Oh, Buck!” His voice rises as he comes fully awake, and he rubs his eyes to try and get them to adjust to the dark. “Sorry, I— um. What are you doing here?”

“You were having a nightmare,” Bucky says. He figures it’s time to leave so he rises up on all fours to drop off the bed, but Rogers cautiously touches his shoulder.

“You can stay,” he suggests, a bit too quickly, then scrubs his face a bit to collect himself. “I mean, if you want to. It’s not much different from napping on the couch, is it?”

Bucky watches him for a moment, still halfway poised to drop onto the floor, but he languidly brings his tail back around and adjusts his balance to stay. “I guess not, sir.”

The captain suddenly looks like he regrets asking, and rubs the back of his head. “Look, I don’t want you to stay because you feel like I just ordered you to…”

Ah. Right. The captain likes it when Bucky uses his name. “Steve,” he says, filling in the awkward silence Rogers left when he trailed off. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.” Bucky stretches before he curls up somewhere near the captain’s hip, staying on the top of the bedspread. It’s too hot in the room for him to be comfortable underneath, so he just wraps his tail around his front and presses his face into the soft fabric. “I’ll protect you.”

Just as he drifts off, Bucky startles back to full wakefulness after something touches his tail. When he looks up he finds the captain dozing and stroking the back length of it. It’s a bit of an odd sensation, the slight pull and drag on such a sensitive part of his body, but soon the soothing tingle of it spreads throughout his body. Bucky relaxes into it, rubs the top of his head on the sturdy lump of the captain next to him, and drifts off.

* * *

Steve wakes up before his alarm.

It takes almost no time for him to remember last night, Bucky having woken him up from a horrible nightmare, and then falling asleep in his bed. Steve peeks out from under one eyelid and finds Bucky’s quiet form, still asleep on top of the bedspread. He’s in his fuzzy ball form, tail coiled all the way around himself, and Steve picks his hand up from when it had been clutching the thick, wooly fur. So far Bucky has given him permission to touch his ears, but he knows a cat’s tail is much more private.

Steve’s chest expands with the threat of a deep yawn so he covers his face with both hands, trying to smother it but it’s too late. Bucky stirs, but only so much to uncoil from his ball, flipping open into his French girl position. His belly peeks out from under his t-shirt and he rubs his ears on the soft cotton bedspread as he yawns, then settles back down with a sleepy sigh. Steve watches in silence, trying to gauge how awake Bucky might actually be.

Steve had gotten used to starting off his mornings feeling the chill of Bucky’s absence, dragging himself off the couch to find that Bucky had started the coffee maker, hopped in the shower, or was gone from the apartment altogether on his early morning patrol of the building. It’s rare that Steve wakes up before the cat, even more rare that  he’s so vulnerably sprawled out next to him. Bucky’s belly rises and falls in that slow, sleepy rhythm, and Steve relaxes back into his pillows, content to just watch. He wants to wake up like this every morning.

Then he thinks about last night— and _holy shit,_ all the plans for the week— and the pit of dread opens up in the bottom of his gut again. The press tour starts today with a trip to Fort McNair, where they are going to interview with two different journalists about the cat’s living arrangements. Steve’s done his best to coach Bucky on PR encounters, giving him a number of talking points to memorize and walking him through each publication ahead of time, but he’s still nervous about how fast it’s all moving.

Steve looks down at the snoozing cat, remembering his promise from the night before. If he’s going to protect Bucky, he needs to know more about what threatens him. Needs to stop being one of those humans that just can’t ‘see’ what cats see. “Hey, pal?” It seems only natural that he pets Bucky’s tail when he says this.

Bucky arches suddenly and sucks in a breath, and his tail curls up off the bed, like it’s the one coming awake, so Steve pulls his hand away immediately. Bucky pulls himself up on his elbows and looks around sleepily before turning to Steve with watery eyes and yawns again. “It’s early,” he complains.

“Sorry. The alarm is going off in half an hour,” Steve explains, but Bucky doesn’t look convinced. “I thought we might want to, you know… Clear the air. Before we have to get back to work. I still want to make sure you’re not— Or that I understand exactly what you’re—” Steve rubs his eyes. Maybe talking about this first thing in the morning wasn’t such a good idea. “I want to see what you see. Tell me about Pierce and Zola and this— this scent thing.”

Bucky’s tail goes still for a few beats and he stares at Steve, face unreadable but ears turning as he thinks. “Okay,” he finally decides, and pulls his legs up, so that he can hug his knees to his chest. He encircles himself with his tail, the tip coming to a rest on his overlapping sock feet and he hunches slightly as the plates on his arm shift up and down. Steve notices that he slept wearing the leather glove. “Um, it’s hard to explain I guess. The worst part is that Zola already didn’t smell… normal. Like a living thing. It was more like…” Bucky’s face scrunches up. “Have you ever smelled something so strong that it hurt your face? Or made you feel sick?”

Steve huffs out a laugh, then pulls up his own knees to match Bucky’s seated position. “I’m from Brooklyn,” he reminds him. “Of course I have. Hot wet garbage on a summer day. The East River at low tide. The gutters in downtown Flushing after the fish markets dump all their ice first thing in the morning—” Steve has to swallow the reflexive gag, but can’t help feeling nostalgic. He wishes they had more time at Stark Industries to see New York.

“So, does it feel like… even if you couldn’t smell it, you’d still feel that sickness? It would just hurt your eyes, or maybe you could taste it on the air.”

“Sure, but let’s not talk anymore about tasting New York gutter water,” Steve says with a smile, but winces when his attempt at levity falls utterly flat and Bucky’s face just sinks lower into his crossed arms.

“So for us it’s not just a smell and a taste. It’s… like how you know something might feel just by seeing the texture of it. It’s how you know how close something is just by listening for it. The scents around us paint a picture of the world, and helps me… see?” Bucky frowns. “That’s not exactly right but I don’t know how else to describe it.”

“I think I understand,” Steve says. “When I was doing physical therapy for my leg, building the muscle back up after the last skin graft, the doctor made me stand on one foot and close my eyes. I thought that’d be easy, but it took me ages before I could do it without falling the fuck over.”

Bucky’s eyebrows pop up at the analogy and for a moment Steve thinks he’s gotten it horribly wrong. “Yeah,” Bucky says, then grumbles, “Only I don’t know how you don’t fall the fuck over without a tail to begin with.”

Steve clamps down on the laugh that bubbles up, and the sound that escapes results in an unattractive snort, and Bucky laughs at his effort. Finally, Steve feels like the ice between them has been broken. Before he even opens his mouth to ask for more, his phone sings out a few chimes.

It’s 0630, time to get up and start their press tour.

* * *

Bucky leaves the captain’s room after the alarm goes off, showers quickly, does his best to smooth Dr. Cho’s cream over his scars without the captain’s help, then retreats to his bedroom to climb into his uniform as Rogers takes a short shower of his own. They have a tight schedule to adhere to, and as interested as he was to see how far the captain’s tenuous curiosity of cats would stretch, the Army’s Winter Soldier is not without a mission, and Bucky knows he has an obligation to fulfill in exchange for his freedom.

Bucky stares into the reflection of his red star, unsure what to think about his new title. The press already started referring to him as _the_ Winter Soldier, as if he was the only one. He supposes it isn’t so much different from SCF-h F5; Soldier Companion Feline, hunter classification, fifth rank. It’s less of a mouthful, anyway. Just as he hears the shower turn off, his phone chimes with a new text message. Tony Stark sent him a New York Times link with the message, _Your human is doing good. So far._

Bucky opens the link as second message comes in, _Don’t read the comments._

> ### Pentagon Announces New Strategy for Curbing Ferals
> 
> WASHINGTON DC — The Pentagon on Monday took a major step designed to instill a measure of control in the number of ex-military ferals, releasing a new strategy that for the first time explicitly discusses the circumstances under which humanoid felines wind up on the streets after released from military service.  
>    
>  The policy, announced in a press briefing at the Pentagon by Cpt. Steven Rogers of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, represents the fourth time in four months that the Pierce administration has made steps to address a growing concern that highly trained, dangerous cats are returning home from the widespread base closures throughout Russia, only to then be targeted as potential recruits for local gangs, or lapse into criminal lifestyles.  
>    
>  A previous strategy, released in 2013, was less detailed and only put additional feline control regulations in place such as the controversial muzzle ordinance. That unpopular strategy included vague exclusions for private keepers and breeders, leaving many ungelded male felines free to simply ignore it in the confusion. During the years that followed, the domestic terrorist Black Panther is said to have recruited heavily from these hostile, frustrated males, leading to a rise of feline perpetrated crime and much of the civil unrest such as the cat riot last Monday.  
>    
>  But President Pierce’s decision to publicly support the Winter Soldier program, approving a $6.2M budget to house, retrain, and care for the returning cats, all reflect a sea change in administration policy.  
>    
>  American officials have questioned for years that the CFC would lack resources to address the special needs military cats have, including traumatic injuries, long term disabilities, and an inability to afford the costly gelding procedure that adult male cats require to grant them access to standard job licenses. Now, Mr. Pierce and his aides are beginning to lay out benefits under which the nation would care for the cats directly — in partnership with the CFC, through a newly developed branch within the current Veterans Affairs, and through a generous partnership with Stark Industries, who have an exclusive contract to provide prosthetic limbs to felines who lost them in action.
> 
> They have made no mention of the central role Japan played in the initial training and resource exchange to develop the SCF program in the first place.  
>    
>  In his speech at the Pentagon, Rogers revealed that — like the White House and the State Department — the Pentagon values the contribution felines have made to the military since the SCF program was introduced after the Second World War, and stressed the importance of caring for cats at home and abroad.  
>    
>  “What we saw is that when the military record and CFC records for each feline that pass through the system aren’t properly matched, felines that spent their entire lives in service to this country slip through the cracks,” he said, saying the current system exploited “an old vulnerability in the legacy relationship humans had when caring for the US feline population after the great die off at the turn of the last century.” He said that a “hand selected team of DOD officials” had “diligently developed a program to seal up those cracks.”  
>    
>  But administration officials would not say if the recent protests in New York may be a sign if such a program is too late. Black Panther, still wanted by police for questioning, has gained popularity even amongst kept cats, with positive mentions of him and his recent action trending throughout social media. The administration has since proposed new regulations to limit congregation of humanoid felines in public spaces without keepers present, and has started to crack down on license restrictions at cash registers, seemingly in direct opposition to this new feline friendly policy.  
>    
>  Rogers was quick to dismiss the Winter Soldier initiative’s involvement with Mr. Pierce’s recent regulations, citing confidence in the president’s ability to tactically balance the protection of both felines and humans, and that the Winter Soldiers will have “many new avenues opened to them to become productive, healthy citizens as they were effective loyal soldiers.”
> 
> The first humanoid feline to go through the program was presented at the end of the briefing, modeling the latest innovation in prosthetic limbs from Stark Industries. Selected for a “history of exemplary service” as well as “explicit need,” the Winter Soldier is a large thoroughbred, previously stationed on Sakhalin. Throughout the next five weeks, ‘Bucky’ will travel the country on a press tour while taking full advantage of the extensive benefits as the military’s first Winter Soldier.
> 
> ###

Well. At least they spelled his name right. The last article he read called him _Buckeye._ It’s always interesting how the press only ever positions news about cats with how it effects humans, usually glossing over how it effects the cats themselves. The Winter Soldier initiative, for example, is repeatedly explained by how much it may curb ferals and thus reduce crime in urban centers. The article mentions nothing about how many cats find themselves destitute after returning from Russia, of how many die in the CFC Red Rooms across the country, simply because they can’t afford the gelding procedure to get regular work, or suffer from disabilities like Bucky’s missing arm.

The article certainly doesn’t talk about the back alley gelding procedures that oftentimes leave cats sick for weeks, or wind up so horribly botched that they just bleed out in some tenement basement. The article certainly doesn’t mention how vulnerable these cats are, how many of them find themselves trafficked out of the country, where people wear tails like fashion accessories. While in the Army, every cat knew it was better to die in skirmishes between Russia and China than to be captured, even though no one ever alluded to why. Bucky learned quickly on the streets of New York. Someone offered him a thousand dollars once for his tail, and he may have even considered it if he hadn’t already been missing an arm.

A shiver crawls down his back and his tail gives a grateful wave. Dying would have been better than cutting off half his spine. Bucky sits down hard on his bed when panic suddenly crawls out of his stomach, like a balloon of cockroaches burst inside him, releasing insects into all his most vulnerable places. Sweat instantly springs up along his brow and in his single armpit, but his teeth chatter, sensing a chill that isn’t even there. The tips of his fingers go numb, even the metal ones with their artificial connections, and he can no longer feel the tip of his tail.

“Captain,” he utters, but his voice cracks, coming out in a wheeze. Bucky slides to the floor, landing hard on his rear, and his tail drops like a heavy rope after him. “S-Steve…” the word feels like it was dragged out of him and he clutches his own body, just as the room starts to tilt. It’s no good. The door is closed and human hearing pretty much extends to only one room at a time. He’s likely in his own bedroom, getting dressed, but Bucky’s limbs have become cement, hardening quickly and impossible to move. What the fuck is happening to him? Why is his body shutting down? Is it a problem with the Stark implant? Is he paralyzed? That had been one of the side effects Dr. Cho warned him of, in case something had gone wrong in surgery.

Why is he so fucking cold?

“Bucky? Are you ready for breakfast yet?” The captain’s voice drifts through the door from the kitchen. After a few moments struggling to answer, Rogers finally gets curious or impatient or fucking psychic enough to come down the hall. “Buck? You… uh. You decent, pal?”

A gentle knock on the door. Come on Rogers. Fucking get over it already.

The door cracks open a few inches as his sunny face peeks inside, smiling and a little red. “Buck, you in here? Oh, shit—” the captain lands on his knees in front of him and holds Bucky’s face between his hands. “Bucky! What’s the matter?” But his hands cut like knives and Bucky’s jaw slams shut, unwilling to open. Bucky flinches so hard his neck cracks, and then his whole spine goes relaxed in a terrifying sort of way, like all his nerves have bled out of his brain stem and he just can’t feel the pain anymore. “Bucky! I’m calling the CFC.”

“N-no,” Bucky whines, through his teeth.

“I don’t know what else to do!” Rogers eyes are wide with panic as he searches Bucky’s face, looking for an answer to what’s just gone so horribly wrong. The arm is the only thing responding to what he needs at all, so Bucky reaches up and latches his hand in the captain’s dress shirt.

“H-hold…”

Rogers doesn’t need more information than that, and pulls Bucky against his chest, wrapping his strong arms around his shoulders and cradling the back of his head in one hand. “I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re safe. I promised your safe.”

Bucky’s eyes burn with tears and he suddenly gasps, like he’s broken through the surface of the water. The feeling returns to his fingers and tail and they prickle with the sensation, and the tears won’t stop. “Steve,” he gulps. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You’re safe,” Rogers says again, harder this time, like invoking a ward. He pulls back just far enough to see Bucky’s face, and Bucky sees the captain’s crying too. “You’re safe. I promise.”

Then the captain’s secure embrace becomes stifling and Bucky struggles out of it, but Rogers remains on the floor, confusion painted across his features as Bucky staggers to his feet. He feels giddy with energy, can almost taste it on his tongue, like he licked a lightbulb socket. The crippling panic seems to have vanished as quickly as it came up, leaving Bucky shaking and catching his breath in its sudden absence. “I don’t know what happened. I feel better now.”

Rogers wipes his own eyes and sniffs, coming up to stand. “We should take you to the CFC, Buck. If only to—”

“No!” Bucky cries, and the captain blinks, lips parted in shock. “I swear I’m fine now.”

“We have to have you checked out somewhere. Your implant might be malfunctioning or you might be sick.” The captain looks around the room, rakes his fingers through his hair with one hand while holding his own stomach with the other, like the whole thing made him slightly sick. “Bucky, this is serious.”

Bucky shakes his head, because he doesn’t know how else to argue. They are so close, he can see the rapid pump of the captain’s heartbeat in the vein on his throat, and his eyes are red and wide. Rogers isn’t kidding, he had clearly been terrified. Bucky also knows he’s a sucker. “Please, Steve,” Bucky says and walks right into the captain’s personal space. His tail wraps around them both and he rubs his ear against the captain’s broad chest. Rogers takes a half step back in surprise before he puts his arms around him. It feels nice again, not stifling at all. “I can’t go back there. Please? We can go somewhere else.”

“It’s the only feline health clinic in DC,” Steve reasons, but Bucky can tell his resolve is crumbling. “Unless… We are scheduled to visit the VA on Friday. I could call Major Wilson. Get our schedule shuffled around a bit. It was only for the press, but they have an actual feline specialist on staff now. Would that be okay?”

No. “Yes,” Bucky breathes out, sighing into the captain’s shirt.

“Okay,” he says softly, and strokes the back of his head. “I’ll call up Private Lorraine. She’ll make it happen.”

* * *

“I already talked to Lorraine,” Steve argues, after he detects Sam’s worry about the reporters being diverted from Fort McNair. “She’s prebriefing them already about the change of plans. So far they have both agreed, so all we need is the VA clearance.”

Sam makes the universal sigh of caving in, then groans when he realizes he’s already lost. “Dr. Simmons landed last night from the UK. I’ll check to see if she’s available but I can’t make any promises. If it comes down to it, we’ll have one of the regular doctors take his vitals and draw blood. If he’ll sit still for that sort of thing.”

Steve releases a measured breath, and presses his fingers into his eyes. “Thank you Sam. You’re a lifesaver. He absolutely refuses to go back to the CFC and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Refuses, huh?” Sam’s voice is tired, but Steve easily detects a layer of sarcasm he wouldn’t have expected from his usually sympathetic friend.

“Can you blame him? That place was going to—” Steve drops his voice, turns his back on the hallway as if that would make a difference for how well Bucky could hear him. “They were going to euthanize him, Sam.”

“I get that, Steve,” Sam says, like he’s trying to be very patient. “But I also get how that cat has you wrapped around his little finger.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nevermind, man. It’s just— Nevermind. I’ll make the call to Dr. Simmons.” There’s a pause, where Steve can tell Sam is genuinely struggling with what he wants to say. “Don’t worry Steve. We’ll take care of him.”

Steve wants to push back, wants desperately to find out just what the hell he meant by that, but he has his priorities straight. Bucky comes first. “Thanks Sam. I owe you one.”

“Five. You owe me like, five.”

* * *

Bucky feels numb. Not the boneless lack of sensation that took him to the floor earlier, but dull to the world around him, like his whole body is trapped behind a muzzle. Before he knows it, he’s nodding off in the captain’s car as they drive to the VA Medical Center. After they park and Bucky wakes up, he feels much better but Rogers has that hard set to his jaw that tells Bucky he doesn’t have a chance in hell to convince him to turn around and go home without seeing the doctors inside.

The intake staff treat him like a curiosity. It’s not the same as the CFC, where he’s pulled and tugged and stripped with callous hands and effortless disdain. The human doctors at the VA are cold, but not unkind. One asks Rogers which end he should up the thermometer in, and he nearly screams when he says, “In his _mouth,_ you fucking idiot!”

Bucky can’t be bothered to really pay attention to what they’re saying or answer their questions. He just wants to find a dark place to curl up and take another nap, away from so many human hands and human eyes and weird, septic smells.

Finally, Dr. Simmons appears, and fog lifts when he hears her introduce herself as a humanoid feline medical specialist in a very British accent. Bucky looks away from where he had been spacing out, and realizes he’s alone with her. “Where’s Steve?” He asks, then snaps his mouth shut and tries again. “Captain Rogers.”

Dr. Simmons smiles, tactfully ignoring his slip. Her brown hair is in a messy ponytail, and her white lab coat has someone else’s name on it. She looks younger than most doctors Bucky has met, and sounds tired when she answers. “Out in the waiting room. Would you feel more comfortable with him in here?”

Bucky glances around the room while he thinks about it. It’s small, with a padded, reclining examination table where he sits on crinkly paper. There’s a small counter of medical supplies, with a little wheely stool tucked beneath a miniature sink, plus a computer workstation suspended from the ceiling with a swing arm. The walls are decorated with laminated posters of human anatomy, and there’s a wooden rack of information pamphlets attached to the wall near the room’s only door. There are no windows at all.

“No, ma’am,” he says. If Bucky has something wrong with him, he wouldn’t want the captain to panic.

“Please,” she says. “Call me Jemma. Why don’t we start by going over your symptoms.”

“Captain Rogers walked through all that during intake,” he says. It’s not that he cares about repeating it, but he’s worried about contradicting the official report. He’s already having a hard time remembering all his symptoms, and just wants this over as soon as possible.

“I know, and it’s fantastic that he’s been so supportive. I just want to hear it from your point of view.” It’s interesting that she doesn’t seem to be taking any notes, and she’s so petite that when she sits on the small stool he has to look down at her. Bucky is more used to impatient doctors standing over him, rather than looking up at him with a patient smile. “So Bucky, can you remember what you were doing right before this attack happened?”

Attack? Bucky was looking in the mirror, but he’s not sure if she means for him to be so explicit. “I was standing in my bedroom.”

“Hungry?”

“Yes. We hadn’t had breakfast yet. I was… I had just finished getting dressed,” Bucky puts his hand on his chest, surprised when it suddenly occurs to him that he’s no longer wearing his armored vest. In its place is a soft henley, rolled up his forearms. He’s pretty sure it belongs to Captain Rogers. “Not in this. I was wearing my uniform. I looked in the mirror and then just… I felt sick.”

Dr. Simmons nods. “I saw Captain Rogers reported an elevated heart rate, difficulty breathing,” Bucky nods along with her as she lists the symptoms, wondering why she wants him to confirm everything. “Did you feel very hot or very cold?”

That’s a new one. “Cold. But I started sweating.”

“And your implant here,” she says, and motions along the seam of his shoulder, peeking out from the wide neckline of the henley. “Did it explicitly malfunction? Pain, uncontrolled movement?”

“No, ma’am.”

Dr. Simmons glances up at that, but Bucky doesn’t correct his decorum, even though she told him to. He has no place calling a human doctor by their first name. “The intake doctor flagged you for high blood pressure, but one hundred and eighty BPM is right around average for a humanoid feline of your size.” Jemma pulls a small pen light out of her jacket pocket. “I’m going to test your pupils, is that alright?”

Bucky doesn’t want her to, but is thrown off by actually being asked. “Um. Yes, ma’am.”

The light shines first in one eye, then the other.

“May I see your throat, next?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ears?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please excuse my cold hands,” she warns him with a smile. “It’s awful nippy in DC this time of year, isn’t it.” Bucky isn’t sure if she’s even really asking him at this point, distracted as she is by folding open his ears and peering into his skull. “You have a lovely flank, Bucky,” she mumbles, and puts her fingers into the scruff of fur along his hairline. “Any pain here?”

She continues with a few other strangely non-invasive tests, offering small compliments and asking for pain or tension, of which there is none. Dr. Simmons listens to his heartbeat through his back and his chest, has him take several deep breaths, then asks him a few questions about his implant and inspects his scars.

She asks his permission for each and every part of his body that she wants to touch, twice for the last one when she presses her thumb along the ridge of his tail while he stands on all fours and upright. Finally, Bucky sits back down and she gives him a satisfied little nod. “It looks like all your vitals have returned to normal. You have an existing vitamin deficiency, but it seems to be steadily correcting since your blood was last drawn at the CFC. Sounds like Captain Rogers is taking good care of you. Now, this next question is a little personal, so please feel free not to answer. What were you thinking, right before you felt sick?”

Bucky bites his lower lip. He had been thinking about selling his tail. He had been thinking about starving to death. He had been thinking about the Red Room. “Nothing.”

For the very first time, Dr. Simmons frowns, and Bucky glances away. “I’ve spent a lot of time around cats, you know. Fascinating, that humans and felines should have evolved into such different creatures, right here on earth. Scientifically, it shouldn’t have been possible. I know there’s a lot more to cats than some people like to think. I also know there’s a lot more to your body language than some people will ever see. I’ve noted the tail and ear behavior of so many felines, I can oftentimes don’t even have to ask if one is hungry, or sick, or tired.” She makes a friendly little shrug, expecting nothing. “Or maybe even keeping something from me.”

Bucky glances towards the door and strains to hear beyond it, wondering how close Rogers is. “I don’t want to worry Captain Rogers. I’m the model candidate for his program. He’s had to sacrifice a lot for me.”

Dr. Simmons gives him a confused look. “What makes you think Captain Rogers will be privy to any of the information you give me here today?”

Where the hell did they find this doctor? “Captain Rogers is my keeper. You have to tell him about my health and wellness. He has a right to know.”

“He may be your keeper but I am _your_ doctor, and you are a veteran now. As far as I’m concerned, doctor patient confidentiality is in effect.” She waits a beat, but can tell Bucky isn’t quite convinced. “I won’t even write this on your medical record, if you’re that worried.”

Bucky hesitates one more beat before confessing. “I was thinking about dying.”

Dr. Simmons does a good job keeping her face neutral, but her eyebrows edge upwards. “Oh? Dying in combat? In Russia?”

“No. In New York. On the street.” Bucky looks at his tail, which lazily waves up and down against the stretch of paper he sits on. “I used up my discharge stipend and couldn’t make any money. Couldn’t buy anything to eat without a license. Someone offered me a thousand dollars for my tail. I didn’t take it,” he says suddenly as if that wasn’t obvious by the fact that his tail is laying right beside him, and it gives another little wave up and down. “I didn’t seriously consider it. It’s stupid. It happened years ago.” Dr. Lukin had told him they would cut it off after he died, in that chair, in the Red Room, and somehow that terrified him more than actually dying. He thinks about that a lot. “It’s stupid.”

“I see,” she says. “First of all, it isn’t stupid. You suffered severe trauma. I’ve worked with cats who cropped their tails, and it’s extremely debilitating. Like losing an arm,” she adds warmly, and delicately rests her hand on his metal wrist. “For you to worry about yours, to feel like losing it would be equivalent to dying, isn’t entirely an irrational fear. What I think happened is that you suffered a panic attack.”

Bucky shakes his head. That’s ridiculous. “I’m not a fraidy-cat.”

“It’s not about being a ‘fraidy-cat,’” she gently argues, her British dialect working around the American phrase. “It’s about your body developing a very real physiological reaction to a psychological problem.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Is she trying to say that he has mental problems? That there’s something inside him that’s broken? Something doctors can’t fix? Captain Rogers would never send him back to the Red Room, but he should know about this.

“Ah, there are those ears again,” she says with an insightful wave of her finger, like she just heard a bell go off. “I can tell you’re getting a little panicked over this. Please don’t be. It’s perfectly normal for someone who has experienced trauma to have this kind of issue. That’s why it’s called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“Cats can’t have that,” he says. “We can’t make good soldiers if we’re afraid.”

“Many soldiers wind up developing PTSD, Bucky,” Dr. Simmons insists. “Human soldiers. One of the hidden costs of defending crown and country, I’m afraid.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows at the idea of defending a ‘crown’ but she makes no apologies. Where _the hell_ did they find this doctor? England apparently, but he’s certainly never met any other English people like her. Still, he can’t go back to Rogers and tell the human that he has PTSD. Something about that diagnosis feels too pretentious. Like he is requesting special treatment just because he can’t control his own emotions. As much as she tries to explain that his reaction is ‘medical,’ he knows it’s really just a matter of being afraid of things that don’t exist. Irrational fear. Unjustified. “You… you’re not going to tell Captain Rogers?”

“This is absolutely between the two of us. But if you’d like to discuss it with him, I’m sure he’d listen.” Bucky nods. He slides off the examination table assuming it was time to go, but Dr. Simmons stands up with him. “Bucky listen. Some people experience a panic attack once in their life and are lucky enough for it to never happen again. With others it only gets worse until they address the underlying issues. I’m afraid psychiatristy isn’t my field of study, but I know that you, as a feline, have unique life experiences that humans can’t really relate to. If you like, I could contact some colleagues in Cambridge who specialize in feli—”

“No, thank you, doctor,” Bucky quickly says, backing towards the door. “I understand the problem. I’ll work on it. On my own. May I go now?”

Dr. Simmons looks like she wants to say no, but she sighs and says, “Of course. It was nice meeting you.”

Bucky leaves without answering, because it’s weird for a doctor to say it was nice to meet him and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say in exchange. The captain has his back turned to the door, standing on the opposite end of the waiting room and speaking in hushed tones with Major Wilson. “I just want to know why you said it,” he’s saying, though Bucky didn’t catch the beginning of the conversation to know what he might be referring to. “I know things have been weird with us lately, but I figured it was just—” The captain cuts off when Wilson nods at Bucky after catching sight of him approaching. Rogers turns around and grins, and the sight of his smile makes Bucky’s tail needlessly twitchy as he approaches. “Bucky. Are you… How are you? Where is your doctor?”

“I—” he was going to say he doesn’t know, but thinks Rogers probably wants to talk to her about his diagnosis. “She’s still inside I think.”

“What did she say?”

Bucky immediately feels his face burn with shame, and doesn’t know how to explain it. According to Dr. Simmons, he doesn’t have to answer, but he’s not an idiot. Captain Rogers asked him directly what she said. What was he supposed to do? Ignore that? “She said it was a panic attack.”

“Oh,” Steve says immediately, coming up short of saying anything else.

Bucky sees Major Wilson stiffen over his shoulder. “Hey Rogers, I have some work to get to. I’ll let you know about that other thing.”

“Yeah. Sure thing. Thanks. Sorry for all this.”

Major Wilson gives a helpless sigh. “Five things, Rogers. Five.”

“Major Wilson,” Bucky says, catching the man’s attention before he even opens the waiting room door. Even Rogers looks surprised and can’t stop switching his gaze between Bucky and the major, like he’s afraid why the cat called his name. “Um. Thank you. For doing this for me.”

Major Wilson looks at Rogers, as if he would explain what’s happening, then back to Bucky when Rogers gives him nothing but a cocky smile. “You’re welcome,” he firmly replies, before continuing on his way. Maybe Major Wilson doesn’t know what to say either, when a cat unexpectedly breaks that social contract with common courtesy. Bucky wishes  he had told Dr. Simmons it was nice to meet her too.

“There’s two reporters out there,” Rogers tells him, after the major leaves. “They were going to ask you about what you thought of the Winter Soldier barracks at Fort McNair, but since we relocated here they’ll probably ask you questions about your health and the VA services. You don’t have to mention anything about your diagnosis to them. In fact,” Rogers stops short, strokes his own chin as he reconsiders. “You absolutely should not. That’s between us and your doctor.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, thinking Dr. Simmons was painfully naive if she thought he didn’t have to share his medical details with Captain Rogers.

Captain Rogers pauses with his hand on the door. There are windows around the waiting room, so Bucky can already see the reporters waiting in the hallway, heads down over their phones. “If you’re not ready for this… I mean, if you don’t feel up to it. We really can cancel. Your health is really what matters here.”

“If we cancel, they will think I’m sick,” Bucky reasons. He looks down at his metal hand, protected in the soft leather glove. “It’s okay. I’ll just say I was having trouble adjusting to my new implant. Phantom pains. It’ll give me a chance to talk about my prosthetic, which should distract them a bit.”

“Alright,” Rogers agrees but doesn’t look sure. “Um. Don’t go into the details of the Stark/DOD contract. We have an exclusive with Forbes on that one Thursday.” He pauses again. “You sure you don’t want to just cancel? These things happen.”

Bucky flexes his jaw before he answers. “I’m fine sir.” Rogers is babying him because he said he had a panic attack. If he really had an issue with his implant, he probably wouldn’t be second guessing him so much. Now Bucky has to prove that he’s not scared, especially after everything that’s been happening with Pierce or Zola or whatever it is that has Captain Rogers in such a thrall.

Bucky’s mind connects the dots so suddenly he’s stunned into silence, and when the reporters start asking their questions it takes him a few moments to respond while Rogers watches. He snaps out of it in time to give the answers the captain coached him with, effortlessly spinning a story about his phantom pains as he considers the revelation in the back of his mind.

Brock had told him that Zola attacked Ward and that Ward wasn’t the same after, that the other human captain had lied about what happened, insisting that the monstrosity beneath the mask of the Swedish doctor as purely the cat’s fabrication. Captain Rogers wasn’t trapped in an elevator with the creature, but he had been attacked, has the scar to prove it. The same scar Bucky used to ensure he wasn’t changed by it; at the time he reasoned a creature that could heal from a machete wound in an instant wouldn’t carry a scar like the captain’s. Now, though, Bucky thinks of Zola’s appendage he tore from the captain’s leg, the poison it pumped into him.

The memory squeezes around Bucky’s heart, which dares to beat only when he sees the captain’s relieved smile as he politely answers the reporter’s questions. Rogers gives him a nod and a thumbs up when Bucky drops one of his practiced ‘off the cuff’ remarks and Bucky smiles back at his proud keeper, like he isn’t thinking what he’s thinking.

Captain Rogers is the best human he knows, a human worth dying for, a human worth all of this Winter Soldier business, but is this Steve still the same Captain Rogers he had known on Sakhalin? There’s only one cat that would be able to tell him.

And they both hate each other’s guts.

* * *

They finally walk through the door after 1600, and the first thing Steve does is make Bucky hot, sweetened milk. He was fantasizing about hot cocoa on the drive back home, extra marshmallows and all, before he mentally slapped himself for forgetting that cats can’t have chocolate. He adds the marshmallows anyway, because Bucky seems to have a ridiculously high tolerance for sugar, and pushes it into his hands while the cat watches in confusion.

“Drink that,” Steve explains, when Bucky looks like he’s not sure what to do with it. “When I was… well, I had some adjustment issues when I was younger. Even when it was hot outside, my mom would make me hot cocoa with marshmallows. It helps.”

“I don’t think it’s really necessary, sir,” Bucky says quietly, cradling the hot mug between both his hands. Steve sees his metal fingers rubbing against the side, like he’s testing to see if he could feel the heat from it.

“Wait here,” Steve says, and heads into the hall. He cracks open his linen closet and pulls out an extra quilt he throws on his bed when it gets cold, drags it into the living room, then drops it over Bucky’s hunched shoulders. “There.”

“I’m not cold,” Bucky says, and doesn’t actually look too happy about it, one ear flattened under the blanket and the other sticking up just past the edge of it.

“It’s not about being cold, Buck. It’s about feeling— Well, cozy. Taken care of.”

“Cozy.” Bucky drags the blanket off his shoulders, careful not to spill his milk, and shoves it against the back of the chair. “I’m fine, sir.”

So they are back to ‘sir’ again. Steve isn’t sure what cost him so much affection after waking up in such bliss that morning. He frets about it for a moment, watching the cat watch the steam rise off his cup, before he sits down on the couch. They continue in not wholly uncomfortable silence for a long time, before Bucky finally takes a sip.

“I… I haven’t been ‘fine’ since Sakhalin.” Steve confesses to the ceiling, using Bucky’s own word. “When I first got back I had these… Well, I just… The hole was _so_ dark. It’s impossible to fall asleep when the inside of your eyelids remind you of the worst moment of your life. I just wound up sweating buckets and,” Steve’s throat punishes him, swelling shut so that he can’t say anything more. He swallows a few times to open it up and is only partly successful. “Well. The first time I drank, like _really_ drank, I slept for two days straight. I failed to report for duty so I got my first demerit from Colonel Danvers. After that it was easier to do everything drunk so—” Steve clears his throat. “Anyway. It’s okay to be… _not_ fine.”

“Is that why you took your father’s promotion? Instead of shoving it up his ass?”

Steve laughs. Bucky sometimes phrases things more literally than he’s used to. “Sort of. It was either that or dishonorable discharge. I uh—” is he really going to admit this? “I got drunk and pissed on Colonel Danvers’ office door.”

“...I don’t believe you,” Bucky says dryly and Steve laughs again.

“Oh, believe it. I was also banned for life from the New York CFC.”

Bucky’s face scrunches up. “Why?”

“Was looking for you.”

Bucky frowns, then shrugs one shoulder. “I was never in the New York CFC, as far as I know. There was a CFC satellite office in Brooklyn. That’s the one I reported to.”

“...fuck,” Steve murmurs, shaking his head. He knows about the dozens of various CFC satellite offices and checked every single one at least once, at the time. The thought that he might have just missed Bucky on one of those visits hurts in new, horrible ways. “Well. Those assholes at the New York CFC were happy to report to Colonel Danvers that I had been harassing them so that was my second demerit. By the time the door pissing happened I was on a path to lose my bars.”

“So your father offered you a job in DC. That’s why you came here?”

“That’s why I came here. He owns this apartment too, so,” Steve shrugs, then leans back and gestures around him. “It was like I was living my own life and then I screwed up and had to walk right back into his. Neatly packaged officer of the JCS, right where he wanted me, like one of his collectible GI Joe dolls. Okay,” Steve takes in a breath and stands up. He had wanted to comfort Bucky but now he’s just whining about himself. “I’m going to make dinner.”

Food always helps.

Steve chops and butters up brussel sprouts and bacon in a glass dish, then sets potatoes to boil on the stove while seasoning two whole chickens. Bucky eats so much meat, Steve had to get get creative with is small repertoire of cooking recipes. Soon he has one lemon rosemary and one spinach mushroom stuffed chicken roasting away in the oven side by side. He sneaks a careful peek at Bucky while he cooks, and finds him reading his phone one. The next time he looks over the empty mug is sitting on the coffee table and Bucky is a sleeping, fuzzy ball.

So. Bucky had a panic attack. Steve had expected that the cat would suffer from PTSD from all he went through, not just the combat on Sakhalin but from his time on the street and in the clutches of Dr. Lukin and the CFC. Cats aren’t known to have psychological disorders, and Steve sure hasn’t heard of cat therapists before, but he supposes they have to exist. Even military dogs suffer from emotional stress after being in combat.

Bucky wakes up for dinner, eats in relative silence, and then to Steve’s surprise joins him on the couch. Steve lets Bucky get comfortable in his lap without touching him, then carefully lowers his own arm down across Bucky’s middle when he settles down. “Is this okay?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods into his shirt. The feeling releases a cloud of butterflies in his stomach, but he ignores them. “I know you probably need to get back to sleep but if you… I still want to know about Pierce. Zola. What you smelled yesterday. I want to understand what you see.”

Bucky is quiet for a long time, until Steve worries he may have fallen asleep. Finally, Bucky’s tail makes a cautious little roll. “You mentioned Brock was here in the Capitol, right sir?”

Oh. _Fuck._

Steve doesn’t know if he’s ready for this conversation, and he’s the asshole who started it. “Yeah. He works for the Secret Service.”

“Ironic.” Bucky grumbles. “Do you think we could find him?”

Steve swallows. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking Brock from STRIKE can eat shit and die for all Steve cares. “Yeah, Buck.” He says instead. “With my clearance I can. Is there… something you need from him?”

“Just curious,” Bucky says, but Steve can tell he’s holding the real reason back.

He rubs his thumb on the soft fabric of Bucky’s henley, burning with jealousy. “It might be hard, with everyone so busy for this press tour.”

“I understand.”

“He might not even still be there,” Steve says, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. “I found out about two years ago and didn’t exactly keep tabs on him.” And Captain Ward—no, _Agent_ Ward—is also here in DC, but Steve doesn’t mention that because Ward works with SHIELD. Director Coulson hasn’t made it clear what he wants with Bucky once the campaign ends, but he’s obviously still watching. Steve’s hand goes tight around Bucky’s middle, and the cat purrs for exactly three beats before he cuts himself off.

Fuck.

“So,” Steve starts again, hoping to change the subject. “Pierce? Zola? I want to hear about it.”

“It’s okay sir,” Bucky says. “It’s like you said. The scent was just similar and I got scared. This… panic attack thing. Maybe it confused me earlier.”

“Oh. But you seemed so sure…” Steve trails off. If Bucky is no longer committed to insisting that the President of the United States is some kind of monster, then why the fuck is Steve trying to suggest otherwise? “I have a contact that might be able to help us. Maybe Pierce had been present during an interrogation of Zola. I’ll have to ask her about Project Insight, so hopefully I can find out more.”

“Hmm,” Bucky says. “You might be more fine now than you think, sir.” Steve doesn’t say anything, not sure what Bucky means. “You haven’t been drunk at all since we left for New York.”

“Bucky, I drink all the time,” Steve says with a snort. “I mean. I guess not tonight.”

“Not any night since the night before we left,” Bucky insists.

Steve has to think about that for a long time. The last time he remembers even handling alcohol was pouring out his father’s Grey Goose down the sink. That’s not how it works, though. Someone can’t just stop drinking as much as he has without feeling it. Steve feels fine. Sleepy. Warm. But fine. How is that even possible? “I guess you’re right,” Steve admits, but Bucky’s eyes are closed and his tail has gone limp, hanging off the edge of the couch. Steve’s hand tightens around his middle again, and he drops his head back into the cushions.

It’s barely 1800, but he’s already completely exhausted and now he has to add tracking down Brock to his list of impossible tasks. Find out where Arnim Zola is. Find out what Hydra is. Project Insight. Tony Stark and Pepper Potts. Black Panther. SHIELD. Agent Ward. Natasha Romanoff.

Steve looks down when Bucky starts to purr again, and is instantly reminded what he’s going through all this trouble for. Bucky’s face is relaxed in easy sleep, his hands balled into little paws under his chin and his tail hanging loose down to the floor. As frustrated as he’s been, apparently Bucky can’t help but purr in his sleep when he’s this comfortable. Steve gives one ear a tiny scritch and Bucky’s hands curl even tighter when he sighs and mumbles something in his sleep.

“I love you,” Steve says, in a voice so quiet he hardly heard it himself.

One day down. Five weeks to go.

* * *

Bucky muzzled by [Orenjimaru](http://orenjimaru.tumblr.com/post/158357329510/commission-for-httpsresinonao3tumblrcom-for)! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray, I managed to post before I left for Wonder Con! I'll be back Tuesday to start work on the next chapter. I also got a new job already, which is a bit of a surprise. I was hoping to finish this fic before I started work again but life happens! It means updates might start coming a bit slower though =/


	16. Tour of Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)   
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

Despite the rough start, the first week winds up to be the easiest. 

Most of the tour is local, and Private Lorraine had been able to coordinate interviews with key publications at popular landmarks like Fort McNair, the Grave of the Companion Feline memorial statue, and the Smithsonian, leaving Steve the simple task of navigating the not inconsiderable DC traffic between stops. 

The only hiccup had been at the National Zoo, where Steve had been practically incensed that Bucky wasn’t nearly as impressed by the snow leopard as Steve was. 

She was breathtakingly gorgeous. Bucky must be blind. 

The public however, had not been. After Bucky’s picture with the snow leopard hits the official Smithsonian National Zoo Instagram, Bucky’s story gains reach far beyond the scope of the Winter Soldier campaign. Soon, Steve is taking calls from talk shows, publicists, and designers who want to see ‘the snow leopard’ wearing their latest watches and coats and jeans marketed to their spendy clientele. Apparently, there’s quite a bit of competition in the thoroughbred designer collar market between Coach, Givenchy, and some company named Ballman? Ballain? He winds up forwarding them to Private Lorraine and hopes she knows which one to pick from.

In between interviews Bucky eats. And sleeps. And eats. And sleeps.

It’s like having the quietest roommate one could ask for, who happens to also be a garbage disposal for protein. They keep busy, and Steve can tell the cat is still stressed, but all in all it’s an easy few days.

By the end of the second week, Bucky asks about Brock again. Steve puts off looking into the other cat’s whereabouts, claiming he forgot. It wasn’t so much of a lie as an excuse— Steve had been running ragged at work to keep up with the campaign. On top of that, Bucky had a much busier tour schedule. By all accounts, the President’s Winter Soldier program is an overwhelming success, and Steve is worried the stress of it might trigger another panic attack, despite Bucky insisting that he’s fine.

Steve thinks a lot about what he had dared to utter after Bucky had fallen asleep. It makes him feel better that the cat is now in on his timid secret, however unconsciously. Despite this, he doesn’t risk walking that close to the edge again. He keeps those words pushed far into the back of his mind, grateful enough that Bucky had made a habit out of sleeping in his bed. Bucky claimed the territory on top of Steve’s blankets while Steve stays warm beneath them, and Steve doesn't dare upset that delicate, unspoken treaty.

By the third week, Bucky stops sleeping so much and becomes much more active and much,  _ much  _ bigger. He had been whip-thin when Steve first brought him home, but now he’s starting to outgrow his first set of Target clothes. He’s mostly bulking up in his shoulders and chest as he exercises his new arm, and Steve can’t help but notice when Bucky’s quads round out the thighs of his jeans. Maybe it’s not so bad that clothing designers have started sending gifts to the offices of the Joint Chiefs, despite how confused Director Fury is the first time he receives a package from Juicy Couture.

Soon Steve is forced to fall asleep alone and wake up alone, the sign of Bucky’s presence left only by a cooling spot on the blankets and a few stray hairs from his flank. Steve winds up restless without Bucky’s reassuring weight pulling down one side of the mattress. When he finally checks Here Kitty in the middle of the night he finds Bucky downstairs in the fitness center. Steve doesn’t allow himself to feel the sting of disappointment that Bucky seems to prefer spending time on his own now that he’s healed. Humanoid felines are nocturnal after all, so Bucky must be running off his excess energy.

Still. It wouldn’t kill him to let Steve know when he’s going out.

Eventually, Steve can’t help but feel that Bucky is withholding affection on purpose, waiting for Steve to make good on his promise to track down Brock. The disrupted sleep pattern makes Steve cranky, and he’s short with Bucky the next time the cat innocently asks about the other ex-SCF. After that, Steve barely sees him outside of his interviews the following two days. Even though Bucky doesn’t seem to visibly suffer from anxiety, Steve knows there’s something slowly burning away beneath the surface of his charming displays in front of the cameras. 

The fact that he’s looking to connect with a cat from his past shouldn’t be such a shock since Bucky has no other friends. Maybe he’s just lonely. Though what does that imply about the meaningfulness of his and Bucky’s ...friendship? Steve is forced to settle without the answer to that question because it makes him confused. 

What’s Steve really so worried about anyway? Bucky is smart enough not to get sexually entangled with that tomcat again, and has no reason to now that he’s free from the restrictive environment of the US Army. Steve forces himself to stop thinking about it altogether when it occurs to him that Bucky will have to deal with going into heat again, and he has no idea what Bucky’s non-military, non-CFC options would be when the time comes.

At that point Steve stops childishly feeding his jealousy and puts in the call to the Secret Service. Thankfully, they let him know it will take a few days to track down Brock’s Agent in Command and confirm a meeting. That means he won’t have to deal with that whole pile of question marks until Monday, and he and Bucky have the entire weekend to themselves.

November brings in one of the wettest winters DC has seen in decades, and Steve is happy to leave it behind for New York City Friday morning. They are scheduled to appear on a live news segment, have yet another interview with Forbes—this time with Pepper Potts to talk about the rollout of Stark’s prosthetic program—and Bucky has apparently been invited to receive a full wardrobe by Jack Spade. Steve suspects it has something to do with them launching their new Kit Kat Kouture line that he saw an ad for at the CFC, but as long as they don’t try to put any of their tacky collars around Bucky’s neck he supposes he doesn’t have anything to complain about.

Bucky hasn’t brought up Zola again, or Pierce. Steve hasn’t found Natasha either, which is starting to make him nervous. It isn’t weird for the spy to vanish—that’s what spies to best after all—but this time Steve had expected she would have gotten back to him. He dares to leave her one, innocuous text:  _ Taking the train to New York for some PR stuff. Hope we can grab lunch when we’re back?  _

And hopes for the best.

* * *

Bucky had been surprised to find out that Pepper had invited them back to Stark Tower, but less so after he receives seventeen texts in a row from Tony welcoming them back to New York as soon as their train pulls into Penn Station. There were so many cat emojis that Bucky pulls a face, and Rogers asks him if his arm is bothering him.

“No, sir,” Bucky says, tired of the human’s constant over-protectiveness. His arm betrays him, the largest plates around the bicep clenching for a brief moment before it releases, and Rogers looks like he wants to argue.  _ Again.  _

It’s been like this for the past several weeks, ever since he went to the VA for the one time he wasn’t okay. Mostly, he’s enjoyed the ease of the captain’s company. Rogers is the least demanding human he’s ever had to live with, and as long as Bucky is able to make all of Private Lorraine’s appointments his duties are all but complete. Despite his apparent ‘social media’ fame, it’s been quiet, comfortable—not at all what Bucky had been accustomed to. The gym in the captain’s building is particularly nice for late night PT, especially when he gets anxious and frustrated and far too hot to sleep comfortably in the captain’s bed. Regaining some of the physicality he had when he was in the military is the least he can do to ensure he’s able to perform as an SCF again, when the time comes.

But then the captain gets these concerned looks, like he thinks Bucky is going to collapse from another fucking panic attack on the spot, which makes Bucky burn with contempt that it ever happened in the first place. It makes the apartment feel claustrophobic, so he starts to spend more time on the ever-emptier rooftop. It’s intolerably cold for humans this time of the year, so he usually has it to himself no matter what time of day it is. Unfortunately, he always winds up wishing Rogers was up there with him, making the whole sulking exercise relatively pointless. 

Eventually, he starts to suspect Rogers is avoiding his request for information on Brock. Thinking through the reasons why—that Rogers is secretly in collusion with Pierce, that Rogers is hiding Brock’s dead body, that Rogers might have lied in the first place when he had mentioned Brock joining the Secret Service—all only serves to make Bucky moodier and more paranoid, which makes him avoid the captain more, which makes him miss the stupid human all the worse. 

It makes no fucking sense. The fear that the captain might somehow suffer some measure of corruption from the Zola creature does nothing to dull the ache he has for the human’s physical presence. Bucky fucking  _ lives  _ for getting scratched behind the ears, though he’s pretty sure he’ll take that to his grave. In the third week of the press tour they finally head back to New York, and Bucky is relieved to get away from all the baggage they leave behind in DC.

“Bucko!” Tony exclaims, and bounds up to Bucky with a skip in his step, just shy of quadding. He runs his fingers through his hair like he’s some kind of movie star, subtly sweeping his ears back submissively at the same time. Bucky catches his scent when they circle one another, and wonders if the other cat is this flamboyant around other felines. Tony smells so strongly of Pepper Potts it’s like he’s not even trying to hide it, so clearly he’s still an idiot. “Wow,  _ beefy  _ Bucko,” Tony corrects through his wince, as if he’s trying to keep it under his breath when he pats Bucky’s shoulder. “No wonder you need realignment.”

They had just finished the interview with Forbes and Pepper, who luckily did most of the talking since the editors had been largely concerned with Stark Industries’s relationship with the Pierce administration, and the bombshell announcement that for every prosthetic limb the government purchased for human veterans, SI would donate one to a Winter Soldier at no cost to the program. Apparently, this caused some concern for Rogers, but Bucky is never part of the discussion when it comes to the Winter Soldier operations so he tunes it out when Tony meets them in the building lobby.

“Tony.” Bucky lets his name fall flat between them. He’s not truly unhappy to see the other cat, but he wouldn't let him know that. He hadn’t realized until now that somewhere between punching him in the face and Tony’s obnoxiously persistent texting, they'd formed some kind of antagonistic bond.

Figures.

“I’m taking this kitten upstairs,” Tony announces, throwing his arm over Bucky's shoulders. “You okay with that, Cap?”

Rogers looks up from his tense discussion with Pepper, stalls when his eyes flick down to Tony’s arm around Bucky's shoulder. “Um. I guess. It’s up to you, Buck.”

“Yes, sir.” Bucky’s already walking backwards, following Tony’s tugs towards the elevators. The captain is clearly unhappy about him leaving with the other cat, but Bucky doesn't care. Rogers still has a chip on his shoulder about the claws (and the star, Bucky suspects) and between that and the Forbes interview he’ll have his hands full with his own righteousness pretty soon. 

Plus, Bucky has a feeling that Tony is dying to tell him something, given that Tony is hopping up and down and literally says, _ I’m dying to tell you something.  _

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky says with an exasperated sigh, as soon as the doors close off the humans outside. “What the hell is it?” Bucky feels the elevator glide upwards and closes his eyes against the sensation. He thinks he might hate these more than the ones in the captain’s apartment building.

“First off,” Tony says, in a manner that suggests he’s about to scold someone. “Tell me what the hell is going on between you and Captain America.” 

The doors open on Tony’s workshop and Bucky’s baleful glare. “Excuse me?”

“I can smell the tiff between you two a mile away,” Tony says, his tail flicking irritably as he leads the way. His workshop doesn’t seem much different than the last time Bucky had been there, rocket-drone and all. Bucky even spots an empty whiskey tumbler tucked between several stacked panels and what looks like airplane cockpit controls. “Should I have told Pepper to downsize your suite?” He says, plucking a small tool out of a pile of other small tools and then sweeps up a couple of loose clamps. “A little forced bedsharing action to work out the kinks?” 

Bucky stops in his tracks. “Fuck,” he grumbles, and looks over his shoulder on impulse. He could tell as soon as he walked into the shop that they were alone, but can’t help the shiver of paranoia that walks up his tail. “Just because you have no survival instincts...”

“Bucko. Come on. No cameras, remember?” Tony waves a fistfull of screwdrivers in the general vicinity of the ceiling’s most conspicuous corners. He frowns when Bucky continues to glare, then argues, “Well, I can’t keep calling it ‘special hugs’, can I?” Tony rolls his eyes so dramatically Bucky winds up laughing. He might have earned that one. 

Bucky’s smile falls apart when Tony swings around a large, padded examination chair. “Have a seat,” Tony offers with a careless gesture towards it, and dumps the armful of tools into a metal pan on the workbench. Bucky blinks at the sound of metal striking metal, but otherwise doesn’t take his eyes off the proffered seat.

“What are the restraints for?”

Tony glances at the chair, cocks his head to the side like he notices them for the first time. “Well. It was designed to fine-tune prosthetic alignment. Can’t have you flopping around.” 

“Hmm,” Bucky says, nodding like he agrees with whatever Tony just said, while inside he feels like his blood starts to fizz. The chair doesn’t really look the same as the one in the Red Room. It’s padded all over and the restraints are just nylon webbing instead of thick, steel clamps. It doesn’t look like it converts to a flat stretcher for easy transportation either. 

Bucky flinches and his tail wraps around his own legs, suddenly overcome with the fear that something is about to catch hold of it. Or some _ one. _

Bucky presses his hand to his chest, feels his sprinting through the fabric of his shirt. Another panic attack? Because of Tony’s fucking chair? Aw,  _ fuck. _

“Bucko?” Tony’s annoying voice cuts through the haze. 

“Fine!” Bucky says, catching a breath he hadn’t realized was being held. “I’m fine.” He’s fine. He’s not afraid of a stupid chair. To prove it, he marches up to it and sits down while Tony stares at him, unblinking.

“Whatever you say.” Tony goes back to being distracted by whatever is on his workbench and Bucky clenches his teeth, trying to focus on the arm. 

The  _ arm, _ Bucky suddenly thinks, remembering that it continues to function even while the rest of his body feels like it’s short circuiting. The more he focuses on it, the heavier it feels, a sure weight attached to his body like any other part of him. He clenches the exterior plates, focuses on the sound of metal snapping closed, then flexes his hand to extend the claws. He feels every inch of  synthetic nerves firing at the will of his natural synapses, explores the artificial sensation of the claws themselves sliding in and out of their metal sheath. He can even identify the spread of the micromesh as they make their way out of each fingertip. There’s a tiny, satisfying click when they lock back into place within. 

Bucky doesn’t know how long he does this for, until suddenly Tony practically slaps him, right on the star. “All done! I’d say you get a gold star, but I bet they’re saving that color for celebrity prosthetics.”

Bucky blinks, trying to make out what Tony must be talking about, then looks down at his arm where the last casing plate had just been locked back into place. It already feels lighter—not because of the unit itself actually being reduced in weight, but because it’s now balanced with his stronger, larger right arm. “That was fast.” 

Tony snorts. “I’ve been at it for forty-five minutes, but I’ll take that as a compliment for a job well done and excellent bedside manner.”

Forty-five minutes? Bucky swallows thickly against the dryness in his throat, and drops out of the chair onto all fours. He pounces forward, taking care not to slide on his metal fingertips when he lands, then pivots and walks back to Tony’s workstation up right. “The elbow feels… shorter? Like the forearm doesn’t have the reach it used to.”

“Hmm, interesting.” A deep line of concentration settles over Tony’s eyebrows as he gently takes the arm between his hands, pushes his thumbs against the ball of the elbow plate in an exploratory manner. Neither of them address Bucky’s spacing out in the chair, because that’s not the kind of behavior cats acknowledge from one another unless they want to pick a fight. “Bulking the shoulder allowed me to make the energy transfer more efficient, so what you’re feeling is actually the shortened signals from the artificial nerves here.” Tony raps against the steel of Bucky’s arm with his metal pen. “You shouldn’t be so sensitive as to feel the difference though. Your reflexes must be. Well.” Tony tosses the pen down, then claps with joy when Bucky reflexively catches it. “Wow. I’m a damn genius.”

Bucky gives Tony a flat look, then drops the expensive looking pen on the floor. “I was an SCF for most of my life. Excuse me for being able to catch a pen.”

“It’s not about being able to catch a pen,” Tony says. He has a weird habit of talking with his hands, like a human, and they are going a mile a minute as his excitement bursts. “It’s about a prosthetic actually adapting to your natural muscle memory! First, we had to train your brain to use the prosthetic, but now your  _ brain  _ is training the  _ prosthetic  _ to use its finely tuned reflexes!”

Bucky shrugs. “It wouldn’t be worth much if I couldn’t go back to the way I was. I’m not exactly trained to be a pampered housecat.”

Tony grins and cocks an eye, not offended by the obvious jab. “A  _ genius  _ pampered housecat,” he insists, scoops up his pen, then tosses it himself into the existing pile of clutter on the other side of his workbench. “Who otherwise perfectly calibrated the most sophisticated prosthetic on the planet in under an hour. Want to get drunk?”

“Ugh,” Bucky groans. This fucking cat has no boundaries whatsoever. “Not on your life.”

Less than twenty minutes later, Bucky is stuffed with unbelievably delicious sushi and inhaling the starchy scent from his second dish of sake, feeling the warmth of the alcohol through one of his two hands. They had gone back to Tony’s private apartment, curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace and somehow this had just happened.

“So it doesn't bother you that you make all these things,” Bucky holds up his cup with his metal arm, waves it up and down with a gentle mechanic swishing noise the plates make when they pass one another as he flexes. “And then some human like Dr. Cho gets all the credit for it?”

“Nope,” Tony says, popping the ‘p’ as he smacks his lips and pours himself another brimming cup of sake. “Besides, Dr. Cho is a great surgical engineer in her own right. Who cares if that is the thing that makes her famous. Do you ever resent that you’re only known as a soldier’s  _ companion,  _ and not an actual soldier?”

Bucky scrunches up his nose. “What? No. That’s not a thing.” Bucky’s tongue feels like it’s dancing in his mouth as he tries to form the words. “SCF is just a designation, so that it’s obvious to the humans what our role is.” Bucky nods. Yeah, that sounds about right. “As soldiers.”

Tony makes a rude, snorting sound. “Like a ‘special hug’?”

“Fuck you,” Bucky groans, but holds out his cup so that Tony could pour him another drink. The elegant sakazuki is made out of traditionally painted porcelain, delicate as a robin’s egg in his metal fingers. Captain Rogers will be furious when he finds out what they’ve been up to, and the last thing Bucky wants to do is to push his human’s buttons. Yet here he is. Bucky doesn’t know how Tony does it. Bucky  _ does  _ know this is a terrible idea but drinks the sake anyway. “Bleh!” It feels like a giant set of fingers are pinching his whole face. “Are you sure this won’t make me sick?”

“This is basically— no, let me tell you,” Tony rolls onto his back, flattening his ears against the shaggy carpet. “This is the best sake you can get. I can get. I got it. It’s mine. From Japan!” This is Tony’s fourth sakazuki of the stuff, even though he promised it had a minimal alcohol content he is clearly already feeling the effects.

“Not what I asked,” Bucky grumbles, but the sake has burned a line down his throat into his belly and the heat has already started to spread. The panic attack from earlier is already fading into the back of his mind as his legs and flesh arm start to feel heavy, like all his limbs had been recalibrated along with the prosthetic. His problems with the human and himself seem far away and meaningless, all fuzzy around the edges. No wonder Rogers enjoys the stuff so much.

“No, I asked  _ you  _ a question,” Tony argues, watching him from where he lies, upside down. “What the hell is going on between you and the good ol’ Captain Crankypants?”

“Rogers,” Bucky corrects, but he’s bored correcting Tony Stark by now so he doesn’t bother enforcing it. Instead, Bucky flops onto his side, let’s his tail swipe against the surface of the carpet. It feels amazing, like he’s being groomed, the wooly fur of his tail dragging in all the right ways across the extra long fluff of the carpet fibers. “It’s just. Steve is…. Well, I’m worried that he’s.” 

Bucky bites his lip when Tony looks up suddenly at the shake in his voice. He immediately regrets saying anything at all when Tony rolls back over onto his stomach, not breaking eye contact for a second—and Tony Stark’s golden eyes are  _ enormous.  _ “Go on.”

Rawr. This is harder than Bucky thought it might be. When had he decided to confide in Tony Stark anyway? Like Steve had said, the cat couldn’t shut up about anything for more than a few seconds.

...and since when has he started thinking of Captain Rogers as  _ Steve? _

Bucky pulls a face and growls. “I guess I’m not so sure how much I can trust him.” 

“Oh.” Tony deadpans. “...Well. That’s a problem.” 

“Weren’t you telling me I couldn’t trust him in the first place? Because of this,” Bucky opens his left hand, and the claws spring out. Except the one in his pinky, because apparently it was drunk. Bucky snickers and relaxes his palm, allowing the claws to snap back into place. “He was furious when he found out. Maybe it’s Pepper  _ you  _ shouldn’t be trusting.” 

Tony leaps onto all fours and Bucky rears up briefly, showing him his teeth as a warning. “I don’t need to just trust Pepper,” Tony insists. “I  _ love  _ Pepper. The trust is  _ implicit.” _

Bucky laughs in his face, and flops back down to the delicious carpet. Steve should get one of these for their apartment. His apartment. Whatever. “You’ve been watching too much Feline-1-1.”

Tony’s ears go back, even as he lowers his head—showing aggression without directly challenging Bucky’s dominance. “You have a lot to learn, kitten,” he grumbles, and for a moment Bucky is thrown off by the sadness in his tone before Tony makes a huffy sound and snatches up the sake bottle. “Besides, Spanky is a great guy. Throws the best New Year’s Eve parties.” 

“His name is  _ Spanky,” _ Bucky argues, but without any heat.

“Your name is  _ Bucky,”  _ Tony reminds him somewhat reasonably while he refills his sakazuki with another warm serving.

Bucky could just punch him again. That shut him up before. The captain wouldn’t even mind. Probably. “What is it you wanted to tell me?” He asks instead, trying not to sound as petty as he feels as he fingers his third serving. This would be his last one. 

“Project Insight,” Tony says, but he had been quiet for two beats too long and Bucky suspects that hadn’t actually been what he had wanted to talk to him about. “Did you manage to find anything out about it?” 

“No,” Bucky says, mournfully. “Steve’s been trying to connect with someone he knows, but so far there hasn’t been any news. Guess his contact went dark.”

Tony stretches back out on the carpet, setting aside his drink for the time being. “Or  _ ‘Steve’  _ just hasn’t told you what he found out.”

Bucky can’t argue with that. He can’t even muster up the energy to correct Tony over the captain’s name. He misses him, misses trusting him, back when he had been absolutely positive Steve hadn’t been corrupted by Zola’s blindness. If it turns out Project Insight is something that implicates the President’s association with Arnim Zola, Steve might not tell him. “Yeah,” Bucky says. “I guess.” 

“Okay, well. Project Insight, from what Pepper’s found out, is an initiative to round up all of Black Panther’s known associates. Ferals, licensed, military, you name it. Any cat, even a privately kept one, suspected of working with him is going to be detained by the CFC in conjunction with the Department of Homeland Security.”

Bucky scowls as he processes all that through the haze of his creeping intoxication. “When?”

“Don’t know,” Tony says with a flippant shrug, unconcerned. “Don’t know if it’s even true. Was hoping your human could verify, but it kinda sounds like he lives under a rock.”

Or in a perfectly packaged box for a toy soldier. Something about that conflicts so strongly with the Captain Rogers Bucky had known on Sakhalin. The human had always been able to understand so much about the battlefield, about the people around him, about their strengths and weaknesses. He had trusted Bucky with his life on Sakhalin, without hesitation. Stubbornly insisted on following his gut, even when other humans had told him to back down. 

Bucky spent five, miserable years surviving as a crippled feral, but hadn’t considered what five, miserable years with the JCS had done to Steve. Bucky looks at the bottle of elegant rice wine, considers how Steve wallowed in this breezy sense of intoxication for so long. Maybe defending the president that he has always known is just a result of Steve’s own attempts to regain some semblance of control over his own life. 

Bucky snorts a laugh. Control over one’s own life. What must that be like, he wonders. Then he frowns when he thinks about what Tony had just said. “Wait. If you already knew all that. Did you think Rogers was in on it?”

“Before finding out that the claw specs didn’t come from the JCS, yes.” Tony puts his empty sakazuki down on the edge of the wall feature, where the gas fire is dancing in a line of blue and purple flames over a sea of glass crystals. “I guess someone else is pulling his strings though.” 

Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Someone pulling the captain’s strings is exactly what Bucky had been afraid of. If Tony can see it too then what are the chances of it being Hydra on the other end of those strings? Steve has said a number of times that he’s frustrated by his position at the JCS. That his father was toying with his life. A three star general. Probably with regular contact with the President. Is that where the faint scent of Zola came from that day when Rogers first brought him home? The president? Or his own father?

“Ugh.” Bucky rolls onto his back so that he can rub his ears into the carpet like Tony had just done. It’s too much to think about, so he decides not to. “I like his funny human ears.” 

“Aren’t they cute…” Tony whispers up at the ceiling. His eyes are closed, clearly picturing Pepper. “I like the way they smell.”

“Especially after they sweat a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“Pepper smells like summer.”

“Yeah.”

“What is it like to—” he stops, considers what word he wants to use, gives up when he realizes he’s too drunk to reason with himself. “To  _ be with  _ Pepper?”

Tony grins. “It’s like coming home, my friend. Like coming home.” 

They lay together in silence for a long time after confessing these secrets. Bucky had never thought he could talk this freely to anyone, even Steve, about the way he thinks of the human. 

Suddenly Tony makes a face. “Hey. Pepper is mine. You keep to your gunmetal and freedom smelling captain.”

Bucky laughs.

Goddamn it, he misses him. It makes no fucking sense at all.

* * *

Steve misses Bucky. He spent the past two hours fighting with Colonel James Rhodes over the source for the claw specs, only to finally get him to admit that they even exist just before the man had to leave for his dinner meeting. He’s not sure who the hell at the Pentagon has classified the project outside of his clearance level, but he intends to call Director Fury first thing in the morning. For now, all he wants is to crawl out of his damn uniform, find Bucky, and get the hell out of Stark Tower for the evening. Pepper has made him feel surprisingly welcome, despite the friction over the prosthetic, but he’s not going to miss this opportunity to take Bucky to some of the best Japanese food in Midtown.

“Tony told me they finished the calibration early,” Pepper says. She still looks fresh, but her heavy lean against the elevator railing suggests otherwise. It’s been a long day for her as well, since she had to bounce back and forth between Steve’s meetings and her own. “I’m sorry you won’t be joining us for dinner. I’m sure he would had been looking forward to it.”

“I promised Bucky I’d take him out the next time we were in New York,” Steve explains, and Pepper grins.

“I’ve been seeing him all over the news lately,” she says. “You must have one hell of a schedule. It’ll be nice to get out with just the two of you for a while, no prying eyes.” 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, then stops to give Pepper another look. She’s politely holding her phone in one hand, a docket of papers tucked under her arm as she watches the light of the elevators pass by. Surely she hadn’t intended that to have so much innuendo. “How about breakfast?” Steve suggests, right as Here Kitty pings a notification on his phone. Bucky is apparently with Tony on his private floor, so he doesn’t have to worry about tracking the cat down in their suite. “We have to head out early to meet with some rep at Kate Spade, which are words I never thought I’d say.” 

Pepper laughs. “Nice people, okay products. Tony gets a gift basket from them every Christmas. I can take an eight a.m. breakfast,” she offers as the elevator doors glide open. “I’ll add it to my calendar so that Happy doesn’t schedule any—Tony!”

“Who?” Tony squints at them from over Bucky’s shoulder. “Me?”

At first Steve isn’t sure what Pepper is so scandalized about. Tony and Bucky didn’t look like they had gotten up to anything other than a nap on a very plush white carpet. Sure, the smaller cat was nestled against Bucky’s back, but it’s not like— Well. There is a bottle of sake. And two sakazuki.

“Hmm?” Bucky blinks slowly, like he’s only negotiating with the idea of waking up. “Steve. Missed you.”

“God  _ damn  _ it Bucky…” Steve says, and heaves a sigh. “Seriously? Again?”

“I didn’t punch him,” Bucky reasons with a small, confused scowl, like Steve is the one out of line for being upset.

Steve catches Pepper’s exasperated sigh, looks over to see her covering her face with one hand and shaking her head. Tony must do this a lot. “Did you at least eat something first?”

“We got Aburiya Kinnosuke,” Tony drawls, unconcerned with anything as he stretches languidly and crawls up to his feet. “Best Japanese in Midtown.” 

“ _ Sakagura _ is the best Japanese in Midtown— ” Steve stops himself from shouting, just in time for Pepper to give him a surprised look. Tony shrinks away from him anyway, showing the top of his head in submission and Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s no need to get angry at the rich housecat; Bucky clearly knew what he had been doing. “Bucky. Let’s go. We better get you to the bathroom before you get sick over all this nice furniture.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky mumbles, and that’s the last thing he says to him all the way down the elevator, and into their suite.

It’s on an entirely different floor from the one Black Panther invaded, and more lavishly decorated, like a luxe hotel suite rather than the practical accommodations they had the week of Bucky’s surgery. Someone had already dropped their luggage off— Bucky’s bag in the closet of the guest room while Steve’s was laid out in the master bedroom. Bucky wobbles when he drops down to all fours, but manages to poke his nose into each space as he checks it out. “There was another cat in here. And here.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Probably the cleaning staff. Not sure what you think you’re going to accomplish by all this right now,” Steve says, cracking open a bottle of mineral water from the mini bar. “You’re not exactly in any state to defend against Black Panther if he shows up again.” 

“I’m mission ready, sir.” Bucky only slurs a little bit. He hops onto the very center of Steve’s bed, boots on and everything, and flops over without even trying to curl up. Steve suspects he’s just covering for nearly falling flat on his face, and it takes some of the heat out of his frustration with the cat for getting drunk.

“Hey,” Steve huffs out, coming to a stop at Bucky’s feet. “Boots off my bed, pal.” 

Bucky practically flings himself onto his back, then uses his hips to shimmy his whole body down towards Steve, his aforementioned boots dropping off the edge as his shirt crawls up his body. His eyes glitter with mischief when he argues, “ _ Our  _ bed.”

Steve’s face immediately catches on fire. Fuck, he thinks. Bucky did that  _ on purpose.  _

“You’re a punk when you’re sloshed,” Steve says, but it comes out as a wheeze since apparently that comment knocked the wind out of him. Bucky slowly toes his boots off, and they fall with a hard thunk onto the floor between them. All Steve can do is watch, rooted to the spot with the water bottle in his hand. He had been so angry a moment ago but now it’s all he can do to keep his tongue in his mouth. His eyes flick up to Bucky’s face and he can see the cat watching him stare, eyes dark and round and boldly challenging him. Then Bucky’s fangs go into his bottom lip, and Steve compulsively licks his own in response. Bucky’s  _ flirting _ with him. Without saying a word, without touching Steve at all, he’s taken things further than all the nights they already spent together since the last time they had been in Stark Tower. 

Bucky props himself up on his elbows and his tail makes a tiny, suggestive curl, a finger inviting Steve to come hither. Steve swallows thickly, and takes a step back. “I should. It’s.” He needs a way out. “Here, drink this,” he says, and plonks the bottle down on the night stand. “I’m going to get some dinner. It’s only seven thirty so.” 

A little bit of Steve’s anger rekindles when he remembers that Bucky already ate, without him. Except he’s come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t actually mad. Just so,  _ so  _ jealous. “Fuck.”

“Hm,” Bucky says in direct response.

Oh. Jesus. Fuck. Christ.

Steve retreats, heads out of the bedroom and is halfway through the common area before he stops, swipes his sweating face with his hand. “You should sleep in your own room tonight,” he says over his shoulder. Bucky hadn't followed him out of the room, was probably too drunk to get out of bed, but Steve knows the cat can easily hear him. “I think. It’s just better that way.” 

“Steve,” Bucky’s small voice follows him out of the bedroom but Steve ignores it and leaves the suite, then the building, and doesn’t think about how much it hurts until he’s seated at Sakagura, staring at the menu with no appetite and a pain in his chest like a knife.

What the fuck is he doing. His life. His family. His uniform.  _ None  _ of it is compatible with what he had been thinking in that suite. With what he feels. With what he wants.

* * *

Bucky wakes up twenty minutes after the captain left with a kink in his tail and an unbearable urge to piss. When he gets up he winces from the pain in his bladder and in the middle of his tail where he had rolled over on top of it. He rubs the sore spot as he tries to find the floor with his sock feet and immediately trips on his own boots. Without his tail free to counterbalance, Bucky winds up immediately eating shit and slams into the floor so hard it takes him a few seconds to figure out what happened.

“...ouch,” he grumbles, slowly untangling himself after making doubly sure he didn’t just piss his pants. “Oh,  _ fuck,”  _ he amends, when he sees the claws of his left hand lodged into the wood paneling of the floor. They release after cracking one board clean apart. He has to think about it for a second before he can relax his palm, retracting the claws, then shakes out the sawdust and splinters from between the metal digits. He sits down hard on his rear and stares at the damage in an obvious claw shape, frowning. The captain will probably think he did it on purpose in some kind of tantrum. He didn’t even realize they could spring out without him meaning to. He’ll have to keep that in mind if he— 

Nope. Can’t think about that any longer. Must piss.

After doing his business, Bucky heads to the minibar for another bottle of water because he still feels the lingering tilt of his few too many sips of sake. Besides. Rogers will worry. Bucky had known it would be a mistake to drink with Tony Stark. How is it that cat constantly convinced him to get into the stupidest kind of trouble? Of course, Tony Stark hadn’t told him to present himself in front of Captain Rogers like that. 

Bucky pauses with the bottle halfway to his mouth and winces at the thought.  _ Yikes. _

Bucky finishes the water, texts about his utter failure to Tony, who just responds with a happy cat face emoji and an arrow icon, pointing to a house:  _ Going home. _

Clever. Also expressly oversharing. “Rawr. Fuck you, Tony.” Bucky sends  _ that  _ as a text and tosses his phone on the table where he’s determined to ignore it for the rest of the evening. He watches television for a bit but so many of the channels are filled with good looking food—he’d kill for another serving or five of sushi—so he climbs into his softest sleeping pants, and tracks down a building directory inside the desk where the captain’s laptop is set up. Bucky lays it down on top of a padded folder with some government logo on the front (probably some of the captain’s work he means to get to when he comes back from dinner) and considers checking out one of the building’s seven different gyms when he hears footsteps out in the hall. He briefly considers diving into his own bed so that he doesn’t have to face the human, but then he wouldn’t get to see him...

Shit.

Rogers opens the door slowly, peeking in like he’s worried what he might find, then visibly relaxes when his eyes meet Bucky’s. His smile is so damn soft, Bucky is immediately relieved he hadn’t hidden from him. 

“Hey,” he says. “Glad you’re still up.” Bucky doesn’t know what to say, so he just watches as the captain awkwardly steps into the suite, closes the door gently behind him, and shrugs out of his heavy coat.

Coming home.

“I’m sorry about my behavior, sir,” Bucky says, trying to start a diplomatic conversation in the painful silence. “I knew you’d be upset about me drinking. I’m not… trying to be defiant.” 

“I know, Buck.” Steve says, and steps over to the minibar where he sets down a pink plastic bag, bulging with square containers. “It’s fine. I was the one out of line for getting so snippy. You have every right to have a good night with your. Er. Friend.” Rogers coughs and slips the plastic bag off a towering stack of sushi containers. Bucky swallows the drool that immediately springs up on his tongue. “I uh. I brought you another dinner. If you’re hungry.” Rogers leans over the containers for a moment, kicking the toe of his shiny shoe into the bottom edge of the cabinet where the glossy black mini fridge is tucked. Bucky watches him try to figure out what to say next, thinking maybe he should reassure him that he really is sorry for being so undisciplined. Finally, the human shrugs and gives him another smile over his shoulder, turning just enough to make an offer of his take-out meal. “Maybe you can be the one to determine who makes the best Japanese food in Midtown?”

Aw. Bucky knows he’s already blushing, but his stomach immediately squeals so loudly even the captain is able to hear it. Rogers laughs at him, but not meanly, and Bucky joins him over the containers as he cracks apart some chopsticks. They both sample each dish, trying their hardest not to make a mess over their makeshift dining table, and eventually agree that Sakagura has the best Japanese food in Midtown. 

Secretly, Bucky thinks that Tony’s restaurant has the better sashimi, but the captain’s face lights up so brightly when Bucky tells him the beef tongue is the best he’s ever had that he keeps that to himself. He knows where his loyalties lay. 

Eventually, happy and full, Bucky confesses that he accidentally scratched the floor with his claws and the captain surprises him by laughing again. “See? Told you the cat’s rights group would never believe you.” Rogers relaxes back into the sofa cushions, leaving his last bowl of rice on the coffee table. They had eventually migrated over when they decided to finish the rest of the gyoza over rice, and he rubs his full stomach through his dress shirt. “I wasn’t even here and you still found a way to wipe out, all on your own.”

Bucky makes an indignant sound and leans back as well, mirroring the captain’s posture. Well. There goes that backup plan if this whole Winter Soldier thing doesn’t work out.

“Ah,” Rogers sighs and he makes a face, like he just remembered something painful. “I guess. If we’re confessing to one another. I um. I called the Secret Service right before we left. They needed to get confirmation of Brock’s schedule from his Agent in Command but when we get back to DC I can probably arrange a meeting. If that’s. Well, if you still want to.” The captain is red in the face, blushing, while he prods at his half eaten bowl of rice with his disposable chopsticks. 

“Sorry it took so long. I guess I just.” Rogers puts the bowl down and frowns, gathering up his nerve. “I’m not sure why you want to see him. He was so awful. But I mean, I guess I kind of understand. I served with total shitbags too, and was curious where they wound up after going through a TDY like that. But none of them. I mean, I never...”

No fucking way. Bucky’s chopsticks are halfway to his mouth with a last bite of rice as he watched the captain’s face turn just about every shade of red, and finally pieces together what he had been trying to say. All this time Captain Rogers hadn’t been sabotaging Bucky’s chance to meet Brock because he had been secretly in thrall with the Zola creature but because he had been, what? Jealous?

So much for ‘it never happened’. 

Bucky puts his dish down with a hard clunk on the glass table top. “Are you worried about it because we were mates?”

Confusion twists up the whole upper half of the captain’s face, but he gives a sideways nod after thinking about it for a few seconds. “I guess. If that’s what you call it.”

“Well.” Bucky thinks back on the shitty decision he had to make on Sakhalin vividly. “I certainly wasn’t letting the guy fuck me because of his winning personality.”

Rogers bursts out with a laugh so loud that Bucky startles backwards, then covers his mouth with his hand to get control of himself. “Oh, man! I’m sorry. I just. Why? Why did you pick him?”

Bucky snorts and looks away. “Wasn’t really much to pick from.” 

Steve leans back to the coffee table and picks up his ceramic mug of green tea, cradling it in his large hands when as he gets comfortable. “No, really. Explain it to me.”

Well. That backfired. Does Bucky want to explain this to a human? Has any cat ever explained this to a human? Bucky just sort of assumed humans already know everything about cats. That’s the whole point of being kept. If humans hadn’t intervened two hundred years ago, cats would have wiped themselves out two hundred years ago.

Sensing his hesitation, Rogers suddenly backtracks. “Nevermind,” he says, staring into his tea. “I shouldn’t have asked something so personal. You don’t need to be interrogated.” 

“It’s okay, sir.” Bucky doesn’t exactly feel interrogated at all. More like Captain Rogers is just trying to learn another language that he himself is fluent in. If Tony had asked him about Brock, Bucky would snap at him and tell him to mind his own fucking business. If the CFC had asked him about Brock he would have just said they had been mates and that’d be the end of it. But this is Captain Rogers. Steve. No one has ever asked him to actually explain it because they genuinely care. 

“Um. Okay.” Bucky thinks for a second. “So Brock was another SCF-h, and an F5. He was also.” Big. He was big. Is that a weird thing to say to a human? They don’t seem to have any sort of dominance scale based on their physical size, it’s all about money and politics and rank and complicated things that Bucky could never understand. Rogers is the biggest human Bucky has ever seen and yet everyone seems to boss him around. “Um. He was a very dominant cat. Like me.”

“Dominant?” Steve frowns, then makes a face. “You don’t mean like. Whips and chains?” 

“Whips?” Bucky shares the captain’s confused stare for a moment. “What?”

“Um. Nevermind.”

Okay. Bucky files that away for later. “So, I was pushed out of season on Sakhalin—in heat right before our mission—and the other SCFs could obviously tell. It caused a lot of discipline problems. It was a distraction.”

“I remember,” Steve says, but without judgement. He had to deal with some of the worst infractions that the Howling Commandos committed while the entire feline regiment was wide eyed and drooling over Bucky’s heat scent.

“Right. So, it’s against regulations to fraternize, which made Brock my only option.” 

Rogers makes a face, not disagreeing but still confused. “Just because he was dominant?”

“Because he wasn’t a subordinate,” Bucky clarifies. “If I had mated with a lower ranking cat they wouldn’t have been able to refuse. I would have put them at risk for disciplinary measures. I was the dominant male so Brock was the only other cat that could have submitted to me willingly, accepting the same risks.”

“That’s not— ” Steve cuts himself off, shakes his head and says to his tea, “That’s not what it looked like.”

“No,” Bucky admits. “That wasn’t… He wound up dominating me, even though I made it clear that’s not what I was looking for. That’s not really how it’s done, but whatever. When it was done it was done.”

“So,” Steve runs his fingers through his hair. “That’s why you were so hostile? Willingly ‘mated’ but unwillingly ‘dominated’?” 

Bucky shrugs. “I guess. Yeah. Once you’re mated the willingness is sort of implied but it’s not like it was fun.”

“That’s not how consent works,” Steve argues. “For humans,” he quickly amends. “It’s important to give clear consent beforehand.  _ Every  _ time beforehand.”

“Humans have to say everything out loud though,” Bucky reminds him, and the captain’s eyes go wide as if he had never considered that before. “We don’t need to put everything in words. It’s easy to have a conversation without being noisy about it. Sorry,” Bucky laughs weakly as the captain scrunches up his nose in doubt. “I’ve never really had to explain it before.”

“No, no, it makes sense.” Rogers finally gives in, but looks disappointed about it, like he can’t decide if he really agrees with it or not. “Maybe it’s like an alpha male sort of thing.”

“Well. Not really.” Not  _ at all.  _ “That’s more of a pack animal sort of thing...”

The captain thinks for a second, then brightens as he considers it from another angle. “Lions have prides. Seems like something that makes sense for cats in big groups like you guys were back on base. Jesus we had you packed tight in those barracks. Two dozen all in one room? And those low ceilings...”

Bucky frowns.

“What?” The captain’s smile falters as he picks up on Bucky’s silence. 

Bucky doesn’t know how to explain it, and thinks of the zoo from the week before. The way the captain surprised him with the snow leopards that had just been brought in from Nepal, like Bucky should be particularly impressed with them just because their fur looks a little bit like his own flank. The mundane cats had been impressive, graceful and powerful, but Bucky hated the way the photographer wanted him to display his spots next to theirs through the glass, like they are trying to find a similar pattern or family resemblance. He had burned with embarrassment while the captain pressed his face to the glass and watched with a clueless, happy grin. 

Bucky touches his ever present license tag. “Nevermind.”

“So. Not like a lion pride?” Bucky looks away, not knowing how to answer without arguing. He’s not even sure what he wants to argue about, since maybe the captain is right. Maybe humanoid feline mating behaviors are better compared to mundane cats than to people. Bucky probably had no business trying to explain it to the captain in the first place. Rogers continues to watch him, determined to figure out the puzzle on his own before he suddenly says in a grim tone, “Not like  _ animals.”  _

Well. It’s not like they were exactly  _ people  _ either. “Sorry,” Bucky says, because he’s not sure what else to say. He wishes they could just change the subject. 

“No, don’t apologize.” Rogers has gone quiet and contemplative, and Bucky catches a glimpse of what he had been like on Sakhalin, piecing new intelligence into a battle strategy. “I’m glad you told me. I knew something’s been bothering you for a while. I just assumed it was Brock and I…” The captain breathes out of his nose. “I’m sorry, Buck. I just want to get to know you better. I want to understand.”

“You didn’t want to understand about President Pierce,” Bucky counters, and the captain’s good natured expression evaporates immediately. Bucky swallows. This is a terrible idea. Much more terrible than drinking the sake.

“What about President Pierce.” The captain’s voice is perfectly even, Bucky can’t read anything behind the not-quite question.

“President Pierce smells like Arnim Zola.” Bucky isn’t stupid. He knows he’s pushing it, but Rogers has been his ally for as long as he can remember. He feels like if he just says the right words, Rogers will pick up on what he’s trying to say, will understand and immediately reassure him that he’s still the same human he knew before they got in that fucking elevator and both their lives changed forever. “I tried to tell you before.”

“I thought that was pretty clear.” Rogers sets down his teacup and rubs the residual warmth into his hands. He’s still relaxed, but he’s not quite meeting Bucky’s gaze. “The President must have come in contact with Zola or something belonging to him, and the scent brought up some bad stuff from Sakhalin. It makes sense you panicked a little.” 

“That’s not how it works, it was Pierce’s actual scent that—”

“Bucky, please,” Steve rolls his neck, like he’s shrugged off a great weight from his shoulders and he’s tired of being reminded of it. “The man is getting a Nobel Peace Prize for chrissakes.”

Bucky lets his ears fall. Nevermind. Bad idea. The captain’s body language alone is already starting to shut the conversation down. Bucky is too tired and too lonely to sleep alone tonight. He shivers, feels his left arm plates shutter closed on reflex. “It must be really cold in here for you.”

The captain watches him for a few long, agonizing moments before he stands up straight and stretches. “Yeah, actually. Freezing.” He sounds just as happy as Bucky had been to change the subject. “I’ll check the thermostat.”

It’s a relief, because Bucky just wants to believe the captain has nothing to do with the terrifying creature that is Zola or Pierce or whatever it is. It’s also depressing, because now Bucky can’t, not without someone else to back him up that knows exactly what he’s up against. The captain crosses the common room of their suite, pokes at a very sophisticated smart home touch panel on the wall. “Huh. Seventy degrees my ass...”

Rogers does something that makes the display flash red so he curses at it before trying again. Meanwhile, Bucky gathers up all the trash from their dinner in the pink plastic bag Rogers brought it home in and sets it beside the suite’s small garbage can for housekeeping to collect. Rogers swears again, this time because according to him he, “just set the optimal room temperature you over-complicated piece of shit!” and Bucky snickers at the human’s mounting frustration after collecting his phone from the side table near the door.

He has one missed text from Tony. A cat face emoji next to a smiling human emoji, a snowflake, followed by an arrow pointing to a house.

_ Mind your own business,  _ Bucky texts back, then looks up quickly to where Rogers just gave up fiddling with the thermostat. Tony Stark is a fucking genius. 

“Let’s get in bed,” Rogers says, exasperated.

“Together?” Bucky asks, and he knows he sounds hopeful and might be blushing, but he’s too shocked at how well Tony’s plan is playing out.

Rogers looks up, like he only just remembers he had told Bucky to sleep in his own room that night, then surprises him with a wink. “If you behave yourself.”

Fucking  _ yes.  _

The light flirting is nothing new. They’ve been there before, like Bucky’s earlier comment about the bed, but always step back from the brink before it goes too far. This time maybe he’ll at least get ear scratches though. How does he ask for that without asking?

Bucky watches Rogers gather up his uniform jacket and his briefcase, then poke through his inbox in preparation for shutting his computer down for the night.

He’ll find a way, Bucky thinks. The captain always gives in when Bucky purrs loudly enough.

* * *

Steve isn’t sure he truly understands how Bucky’s relationship with Brock worked, but at least they’re getting somewhere. When Steve had realized his mistake about the lion pride he had also just been reminded about their trip to the zoo earlier that week, and now it’s all he can think of that the most popular image of the Winter Soldier program on the internet direct compares a humanoid feline to an animal, side by side. Even though the cat acts like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t see the distinction between humanoids and animals, it’s something Steve thinks means more than he lets on.

Either way, Steve is glad he had walked out when he did earlier that evening. He had been inches away from doing something he’d definitely regret, and while Bucky was drunk to boot. What kind of person would that make Steve? What kind of keeper? All talk of personhood aside, Bucky certainly hadn’t been in a position to consent.

Steve swallows at that thought, losing track of the email he had been reading from Private Lorraine. It’s never going to happen, he reminds himself, and closes his laptop for the night. 

As he tucks it back into his laptop bag he notices a blue folder on the desk for the very first time, just underneath a glossy building directory. There’s a government crest on the front that he doesn’t recognize, a stylized eagle with wings spread open, the words Strategic Scientific Reserve around the edge in faded black ink. It looks like it had been printed with an old fashioned rubber stamp, cracked edges and all. “Buck? Is this yours?” 

“What?” Bucky looks up from where he had been cleaning the minibar. “No, I found in the desk drawer. Was looking for a gym. Did you know Stark Tower has seven? There’s one specifically for yoga, but apparently cats aren’t allowed in that one.”

“Not the building map,” Steve holds up the folder for him to see. “This.” 

Bucky frowns. “Figured it was yours.”

Steve lets it fall open in his hand and his heart stutters. Inside is a blurry snapshot of Black Panther, printed on real photo paper with ragged white edges in sepia tones. The clothes he’s wearing must be a hundred years old, yet the mask is unmistakable. “What the hell…” Steve flips through a few faded, yellow sheets all branded with the SSR crest from the cover, along with the words THE WAKANDA MOVEMENT on each header in bold, red ink. Each page has a standard border, like official stationary, marked with an impossible date with a typewriter.

Someone had just slipped him a dossier on the Black Panther from before the Second World War. 

“Did someone from SI leave it here on mistake?” Bucky asks.

In a split second Steve has to make a choice if he is going to tell Bucky or not. The cat is already walking over, curious about Steve’s mystery folder, and would surely be interested to figure out how the hell this folder wound up on the desk in their room. All Steve can think about is Director Coulson and SHIELD’s agenda with Black Panther, of his promise that Bucky would work for them when it came time to infiltrate Panther’s organization. A promise Steve still hasn’t told Bucky a damn thing about.

“Oh, right,” he says, snapping the folder shut before Bucky comes to a stop behind him. The folder introduces too many variables, and Steve is nothing if not excellent at compartmentalizing variables. “It is mine. Just the brief that Pepper gave me about Forbes. She invited us to breakfast, by the way,” he explains, and tucks the folder away into his laptop bag, like it’s nothing. 

Bucky doesn’t think twice about trusting him at his word. “Are we going to have to eat with editors?” Bucky asks, scrunching up his nose, the folder already forgotten.

“No, no,” Steve says, faking a smile. “Just us and Pepper. Probably Tony if he isn’t hungover.” 

Later, when Bucky is in the shower and Steve is already under the covers on the king sized bed, he reads over the last text to Natasha. She still hadn’t given him a return text or email, and Steve is starting to think she never will. He avoided sending her anything that could possibly be considered sensitive information over text, since he’s no stranger to the ways the NSA keep tabs on DOD personnel, but by now he’s tired of waiting. He’s used to feeling like a pawn in someone else’s game, but usually he at least knows what team he’s playing for. 

_ Got an antique blue package from the SSR,  _ he texts.  _ Thought you might want to know. _

_ Keep that to yourself until we get to have lunch again,  _ comes her immediate reply and Steve shakes his head. 

Fucking spies.

The shower shuts off and soon Bucky is nestled against him, under the blankets this time as he shivers in the cold. Steve hisses when Bucky’s wet tail leaves a frigid stripe down his hip, so Bucky readjusts to put his head on Steve’s stomach and purrs more loudly than Steve has ever heard before.

“This okay?” Steve asks, finding the spot behind Bucky’s ear and giving it a good scratch. 

The cat usually just hums in response when Steve asks this question, but this time he says, “It’s always okay.”

* * *

 

Now for something a little bit different! Bucky giving Tony a bit of a hard time. Digital chibi artwork by [DeanDraws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/post/158976648510/commission-work-for-resinonao3-check-out-their)! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one! I went to Wondercon and promptly got sick X_X Wrecked about 3 days worth of writing time for me.


	17. Family Ties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on potential trigger: Not sure how to tag for this, but this chapter has one character insinuate about the potential value in an incest relationship for the purposes of breeding thoroughbreds. 
> 
> Glossary:  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

Bucky is spoiled rotten in New York.

Steve is utterly shocked by how many high end designers have clothing lines for felines. It makes sense, since the wealthy elite are the only ones who can afford thoroughbreds, and they like their things to be just as fashionable as they are. Still. Diamond encrusted collars and tail jewelry seem a bit much.

Bucky starts off timid in each store of the fashion district—Kate Spade, Givenchy, Coach—but when they are taken to the exclusive styling suites and given entire racks of garments to try on, Steve quickly learns that Bucky _fucking loves_ it.

And the clothes love Bucky. He tries on jeans that have artfully crafted notches for his tail, dress shirts with open neckline designs to show off his license, and even a set of segmented bracelet looking things that wrap around his ears, all while each shop has a professional fashion photographer carefully capturing ‘candids’ as Steve watches from the sidelines. Balmain even designed a glove for Bucky’s metal hand which is photographed, claws extended, in an extreme close up. It makes Steve nervous to have the weapons so lovingly displayed, but makes Instagram go wild. Bucky isn’t sent home with many of the items, but what he gets to keep is enough. Burberry gives him a blue pea coat (with more buttons than Steve believes are entirely necessary) worth forty five hundred dollars.

By the end of Saturday evening, their suite at Stark Tower is full of Bucky’s plunder, garment bags with fully tailored suits, gift boxes with designer collars, glossy black shopping bags with gold foil logos stamped on front and artfully frilled tissue paper. Private Lorraine asks if Bucky has any idea what his GQ Style photoshoot has done to Tumblr. The answer is no, because Bucky doesn’t seem to care about or even notice his fame on social media, but Steve thinks it’s charming that so many people _‘luv his widdle teefers’_ in the image of Bucky giving a shy smile while looking out from under a pair of Brioni sunglasses. Each company tries to give Steve a gift as well, but he declines. There are regulations against giving a member of the Joint Chiefs six hundred dollar cashmere lined gloves, no matter how buttery smooth the leather is, or how much snow just fell outside while they had been waiting for Bucky to change.

The fashion district is finally done with them both by Sunday afternoon, but before they drag Bucky’s spoils back to the tower they stop for bagels. It’s _New York_ after all, and Steve feels like he hasn’t had a decent bagel since he moved. The small, bustling shop across from the park is perfect, and Steve takes his time eating each half of his bagel slowly, savoring not just his lunch but Bucky’s complete focus on some of his gifts.

“Captain,” Bucky says excitedly, under his breath like he’s showing him something illicit. “They let me keep the watch. It’s worth three thousand dollars. For a _watch.”_

“Nice, Buck! Too bad you always have your nose in that phone of yours,” Steve says petulantly, but he’s still smiling, because watching Bucky be excited over all this expensive crap is amazing. “You’ll never bother to use it.”

“Unf,” Bucky chews on his lower lip as he rotates his metal wrist, and a telltale clicking sound makes him stop and shake out the hand. “It catches between the plates.” Bucky had been fiddling with the watch all morning, and he seems to be on the verge of giving up. “I might not be able to wear watches I guess.”

“We could glue a fridge magnet to back,” Steve helpfully suggests, wiping the last remnants of cream cheese off his fingers. “Just stick it right on.”

“Tony said the metal plating is non-magnetic,” Bucky snaps, then mutters under his breath when Steve starts to laugh, “Ass.”

Steve laughs so much harder after that, he winds up hiding his eyes in his hand to stem the flow of tears. It feels good to enjoy Bucky’s company so openly, here in New York. It also feels good to be out of his fucking uniform for a change, since he doesn’t have any official business with Stark Industries that day. Even his cellphone has been oddly quiet all morning. Steve hopes Private Lorraine is having a good day off with her sister.

“Here’s your refill, sir,” the feline server says, placing a fresh, ceramic cup of coffee on the small, table between them then takes the empty sugar packet wrappers from Steve’s first cup.

“Thanks,” Steve says to her, and she lowers her ears submissively, the small curtsey type gesture cats usually do when they work service jobs like this. Steve does a double take when she leaves, catching sight of her thin grey tail. Entire patches of fur are missing, the skin exposed in some parts, and has a little bend near the end, like it got kinked. “Ouch,” he says, wincing in sympathy.

“Mange,” Bucky says quietly, following his stare. “Painful.”

“Contagious?” Steve asks and Bucky shrugs.

“Not to anyone who grooms properly, sir,” he says out of the side of his mouth before finishing the last bite of his lox. Steve watches as the server stiffens on the other side of the counter, her ears twitching outward as she pours another customer’s latte. She obviously overheard him.

“Bucky.” Steve is shocked. He’s not sure if Bucky’s ever said something so rude about any other cat that wasn’t Brock. “Wasn’t that a little harsh?”

Bucky’s eyes widen just for an instant in surprise, but then he looks away. He’s not used to Steve sounding disappointed in him. “Sorry, sir.”

That second cup of coffee isn’t so appealing all of a sudden. Steve considers asking Bucky to apologize to the server, but he suspects there’s something more complicated going on—one of those cat things that Steve can’t ‘see’. Besides, Bucky would only do it because he thinks Steve ordered him to, even if he phrases it as a suggestion. Steve leans back in his chair in an attempt to let it go. “Maybe we should take a walk through the park,” he suggests. “I feel like I haven’t seen a tree in ages.”

“There’s one right there, sir,” Bucky says, frowning in confusion and points to the scraggly thing growing out of the patch in the sidewalk outside the window.

“It’s not the same when it’s surrounded by— ” Steve’s phone interrupts his complaining with a polite little ding. He checks his texts and finds a brief note from Private Lorraine. “Shit!”

* * *

Bucky is thinking about how to cover the captain properly if they head into Central Park when Rogers gets the text message, so when the captain swears it takes him by surprise. Even the people seated behind them turn a dirty look their way. “The CFC denied your security status application,” Rogers growls as his fury mounts. “I can’t believe it. I submitted the damn paperwork weeks ago and they only get back to me now? Such bullshit.”

Oh. The captain has been trying to make it legal for Bucky to be out in public without a muzzle,  but Bucky hadn’t realized the application had gone through standard channels. If a cat has a security class license, meaning they work as their keeper’s bodyguard or some other kind of defense role, the public muzzling ordinance is waived. Not much point in having a licensed weapon if it can’t be used in an emergency. It’s the most common job for ex-military cats, since their training allows them to apply for the certification without going through the CFC’s retraining program. He could have told Rogers himself why his application would have been refused. “Is it because I’m still registered as disabled?”

Rogers looks sharply up from his phone, his eyes flick to Bucky’s left arm. “Shit. You’re registered as disabled. You can’t legally work security.”

“I can’t work anything,” Bucky reminds him. He couldn’t get regular work without being desexed, couldn’t get security classified or do manual labor without his arm. The people at the CFC told him that registering as disabled would give him other benefits, but he never saw those in the six months he applied with the CFC’s L&L office. Bucky glances up to the feline that Rogers apparently felt so protective of as she serves a couple in the back of the room. “Not even in a bagel shop.”

“Which means you have to wear— _fuck.”_ Rogers tosses his phone down on the table where it lands with a rude crack. “The President’s award ceremony. You’re supposed to be there. Representing his efforts of demilitarizing Russia in a safe, responsible manner.” Rogers tone has taken on an ugly skepticism, like even he thinks the messaging he’s worked so hard to help build is bullshit. “I have you right on stage with me, presenting it to him. Do you know what it would mean to the country to see a humanoid feline there, standing next to the President?”

Bucky feels a tightness in his chest, but doesn’t let his disappointment show. Instead, he keeps his eyes down and nods. “Standing next to the President. But wearing a muzzle.”

“I’m sorry…” Rogers sounds like he wants to add to that, to explain himself, to explain how the world works again, like Bucky needs any reminder of that.

The captain falls into a long silence, not because he doesn’t have anything to say but because he’s actively avoiding the lecture on the tip of his tongue. Instead he stares into the coffee, guilt written all over his face and in the way he stirs the dark, fragrant drink. Bucky appreciates the effort, even though he understands how helpless he must feel over the whole thing. Bucky leans forward, quietly invading the captain’s line of sight. “Do you still want to go to the park, sir?”

The little spoon stills, and Rogers frowns back down like he only just realized he hadn’t added any creamer or sugar to his cup. “Yeah,” he says, pushing the cup aside. “Let’s get out of here.”

Bucky notices that he leaves a twenty-five dollar tip rolled up under the cup, but doesn’t have the heart to tell him that if the female cat doesn’t already have access to the CFC’s mange shampoo then cash won’t help her. It’s up to Boogey Woogey Brooklyn Bagel Boys (the shop’s actual name according to the logo printed on their menus) to take care of their licensed employees. If she knew what was good for her she’d shave her tail and deal with being called a wet rat for a few weeks until it grew back in. She’s probably too vain or foolish or both to go through with it.

Bucky isn’t even sure why he’s given her a second thought as they cross Fifth Avenue to the park. He doesn’t really have the sympathy to waste on some strange feline he doesn’t know, and will never meet again. He catches the sound of a human child shouting one path over, and a jogger coming up behind them, then steps up to walk in front of the captain. He wishes he could just drop down on all fours to get a better sense of their route, but his hands are full of glossy gift bags from all the shops they visited that morning, and it generally makes humans uncomfortable when large cats prowl through public spaces. Instead he lets his ears do most of the work, and tries to catch important scents over the greenery around them.

“We’re lucky it’s so nice out,” Rogers says, even as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets, raising his shoulders up like he’s trying to hug his own ears. Bucky glances back to Rogers as they follow one of the larger footpaths under the eaves of the trees, and sees the human visibly relax, taking in great big breaths of air through his nose. The captain is happy, smiling softly, and smiles even wider when he catches Bucky watching him.

“It was snowing fifteen minutes ago,” Bucky reminds him.

“Just like home,” Rogers adds with a wink.

“You don’t mean DC, do you sir,” Bucky says, and turns back around to keep leading on point, deeper into the park and away from the noise of the city streets.

Rogers is quiet for a long time while they walk. They pass tourists, young families, some college kids laughing over goofy videos on their phones. A couple people hustle by with shopping bags, some cyclists roll through dressed like they are training for the Tour de France, and plenty of joggers make the most out of the break in the weather to get some exercise in, despite the snap of wind that makes the captain shiver before he speaks again. “Life was a bit more simple on Sakhalin.”

“Hmm,” Bucky says. Three birds flit across the path, several yards above their heads, and a man walking his dog turns onto the path that will eventually cross theirs. “Until we got attacked by a Swedish terrorist and dropped down into a nuclear reactor heat sink.”

“Oh, right,” Rogers dryly admits. “I forgot.”

“You were too busy thinking about Mickey Free in his tight pants,” Bucky suggests and leads them to the opposite side of the path so that the dog walker can pass at maximum distance. “Don’t think you even noticed when I saved your ass.”

“Excuse you,” Rogers says, following Bucky’s lead on the path, like always. “I believe I saved your ass and thought of Mickey Free’s at the same time. It’s called multitasking. Did you think the bandage on your head appeared by magic when you woke up down there?”

“That was you?” Bucky gasps. “I just figured it had been magical elves, considering the field dressing on your leg looked like it had been done by a five year old.”

Rogers laughs. After they make a turn around a small fountain, the captain stops short and clears his throat to get Bucky’s attention. “Hey, why don’t you walk with me for a little while.”

Bucky is confused. What the hell has he _been_ doing?

“I mean,” Rogers glances over his shoulder, gives a casual shrug. “Beside me. Instead of taking point. I think we’re safe enough in the park in the middle of the day. Don’t you?” While Rogers talked Bucky had continued to map the area with his ears, catching any signs of potential threats, but he forces them forward when Rogers continues. “You really don’t need to keep hypervigilance up all the time.”

Okay. Sounds like a mistake, but fine. If Rogers wants him at his side, he can make that work. He stays on the captain’s open side, keeping himself between Rogers and any other park visitors as they pick up the pace again. It’s a fair compromise, especially on the broader pathways.

“Tony and Pepper,” Rogers says, out of the blue, after they quietly walk pass the Central Park Zoo entrance and continue down the path. “Are they? You know.”

Uh oh. Bucky gives Rogers a blank look. “Know what?”

“Come on, Buck,” he quietly insists, looking around for someone who might overhear. There’s a couple walking on a pathway fifteen meters away, but Rogers doesn’t know they are there. They aren’t within earshot anyway. “I know cats don’t tell on other cats, but did Tony say anything? About him? And Pepper?”

“Pepper is not Tony’s keeper,” Bucky says, playing dumb. “What would he have to say about her.”

Rogers snorts in mock disgust. “Fine,” he says. “Keep your secrets. I think they’re together though.”

“They are always together,” Bucky quietly suggests. “They work together.”

“Uh huh,” Rogers says, unconvinced. “It’s just nice to think there’s someone else like.” Rogers stops in his tracks. Looks around again while his cheeks burn. “Well. Like us. Sort of.”  

Bucky raises his eyebrows but says nothing. Pepper and Tony aren’t like him and Steve at all. Pepper and Tony have sex. “If there were something going on,” Bucky cautiously explains. “It would be easy for another cat to tell. The scent would be strong.” And Tony brags about it through emoji because he’s an asshole. “In case you might be curious how another cat might find something like that out, without having to say anything.”

Rogers seems to consider that for a long time, and luckily drops it after that. Even though no one is within earshot it doesn’t feel like something they should be talking about in public.

They eventually make it to a busier part of the park and Rogers winds up buying him a hot dog from a stand without even asking if he wants one—because _of course_ he wants one. They walk back down again, lazily making their way South in the direction of Stark Tower as Bucky savors the salty, fatty meat. Along the way they talk about baseball, Russia, and Major Wilson. The captain and him apparently went to a baseball game in DC, but the captain’s team had performed disgracefully. Bucky detects a slight bit of tension this caused between him and the major when the captain loudly declares, “It doesn’t matter who won, Sam is a fucking idiot for being a Nationals fan to begin with.” Yikes. Maybe that’s why the major and the captain are no longer lovers.

Bucky tells Rogers that he had tried watching baseball but the rules had made no sense, which promptly leads to a heated discussion about cat rules for baseball. Rogers shows his true colors when he throws up his hands and rescinds his old promise to take Bucky to a baseball game sometime, insists that at least they can agree on the deliciousness of hot dogs, and leaves it at that.

Captain Steven Grant Rogers is not so diplomatic when it comes to his favorite sport, it turns out.

Their conversation ends when Bucky casually mentions Karpov, since that’s who gave him his last hot dog, but Rogers doesn’t push to know more. He’s been good at that, letting Bucky say just as much as he wants about these things from his past, without digging for more. Still, the captain goes quiet after that. From his new place at the captain’s side he can clearly watch as his good mood levels out into something a bit more neutral, guilty, like it usually does when the captain is reminded of his time as a feral.

There’s no such thing as a wholesome tenement, not when dealing with ferals and strays. Private, small business run ‘co-op’ housing for less fortunate felines. Bucky isn’t sure what tenement housing had originally been intended for, but it universally has degraded into unsavory humans using unlicensed cats for even less savory things. Deliveries, cleaning, security—relatively benign job titles but with none of the protections that the CFC offers for actual licensed cats. That feline at the bagel shop might not be getting her mange treated, for example, but she wouldn’t be handed a gun and told to cover the escape route for a drug deal.

Bucky doubts that female would have lasted long there; the others would have driven her out of the common sleeping area for bringing parasites in with her flank, but not before shaving her bald and stealing all her stuff.

Unlicensed cats have precious little to lose. Bucky sure didn’t, but he had been the only one trained to use a sniper rifle. He had been the best lookout Karpov had, and Karpov had told him so every time the Russian mobster had to collect him from CFC corrections after he got left behind and arrested. Every time except the last time, when Bucky had inexplicably been abandoned, and somehow transferred to the Triskelion in Washington DC and Lukin’s laboratory.

“You’ve gone awfully quiet,” Rogers says, breaking through Bucky’s thoughts. They pass under a bridge where a group of children and their kitten companion walk overhead, shouting with laughter while they all play together. “Thinking about the tenement?”

“Oh,” Bucky says, and considers lying for about two heartbeats before he realizes Rogers would know anyway. “Yes, sir. It was also a bit more simple. But never felt like home.”

Rogers nods, but doesn’t say anything else, letting Bucky leave it in the past where it belonged.

* * *

They wind up back at the tower later than Steve intended, so he quickly changes into his uniform and heads back out, leaving Bucky in Tony Stark’s capable hands. He has one last appointment before they head back to DC, one he hadn’t even told Private Lorraine about, and wants to make sure he’s on time after the trouble he had gone through to arrange it.

The cab ride to Park Slope takes over an hour with traffic, and soon he’s wondering why the hell he hadn’t caught the train. It’s like he forgot that he’s from Brooklyn, once upon a time. The cab leaves him at the curb in front of a massive brownstone, and he double-checks the address three times as he walks up the ornate stone steps over a servant’s entry. 312 Garfield Place, he has written in his phone. Definitely the right place.

The first thing Steve notices when the female feline opens the front door are her electric blue eyes. They practically glow from under her straight black hair, and he blinks a few times before he remembers to introduce himself.

“Captain Rogers,” she says softly. “Welcome to the Barnes residence. Madam has been expecting you.” She’s wearing a traditional maid uniform—jet black with a crisp white apron—and curtsies before she takes his jacket and scarf. She’s older, the sort of age that’s difficult to pinpoint in felines, but her long black tail and matching ears are glossy and sleek. Something about her reminds Steve of the White Queen from DC, all high cheekbones and straight posture; another thoroughbred for sure.

“Thank you,” Steve says, after he pulls his attention away from the original Klimt painting taking up most of the foyer wall, opposite the polished wooden panel where his coat is hung. “And what is your name?”

The maid’s cheeks color and her pointed ears angle away nervously. “I’ll let madam know you’re waiting in the parlour, sir,” she quickly tells him after her surprised pause, then leaves without another word.

Steve turns around to admire the lavish surroundings, from the parquet wood floors to the monogrammed stained glass in the windows. It’s hard to imagine Bucky had been born here, living in all this luxury in the earliest years of his life. Steve has precious, tiny snippets of information about Bucky’s childhood—or kittenhood? He’s not even sure what to call it—mostly pulled from Bucky’s CFC file. Bucky himself had let it slip that his father had taught him to play baseball before the Army drafted him, but that’s about it.

He considers taking a seat but feels out of place, even in his freshly pressed dress uniform. The furniture is all carved wood and red velvet, and looks like the kind of furniture you’d see in a museum with a delicate rope across the armrests and a sign that says ‘please don’t sit on the antiques.’ The White House has more accommodating looking couches. He winds up pacing, just a little, and sees wealth in every corner of the room; the fireplace elegantly tiled over so that the only thing inside it is a burst of exotic florals, a chandelier hangs from the wood paneled ceiling that probably costs more than Steve’s car.

“Wow,” he whispers, gazing straight up into the glittering light.

“Baccarat,” comes a woman’s voice from behind him. “One of the finest pieces from their early eighteenth century collection. I personally prefer Italian glass but my late husband was in love with French crystal.”

“Mrs. Barnes,” Steve says, and goes to shake her hand. The older woman looks much like her Wikipedia page, shocking red hair and all. She’s clad head to toe in flowing silk, a plunging neckline that exposes her flat sternum. Her makeup, complete with darkly painted eyebrows, reminds Steve of a cartoon villain that should be smoking a cigarette out of an extra long filter. He’s a little worried that she had been so dressed up for him, especially after she chuckles and presents her hand for a kiss instead of a shake. “Please my dear captain,” she cooes. “Call me Freddie.”

The Barnes family has been the top private breeder of humanoid felines in the world for generations, ever since the great die off but before the Japanese and American governments intervened with population control to save them. Old money, the kind that cares about where their crystal comes from. Mrs. Barnes’ personal net worth outweighs some of the weapons contractors that work with the Pentagon. “Thank you so much for meeting with me on a Sunday. I appreciate you taking the time and welcoming me in your, er, _lovely_ home.”

Steve settles down on the couch (apparently a Chippendale chaise lounge, even though he hadn’t asked) and is served coffee (in Royal Doulton china, even though he didn’t care) by the same feline that opened the door for him while Mrs. Barnes happily makes small talk. She asks about his trip, the weather, and his plans for the fast approaching Thanksgiving weekend. As expected, she also shares her own opinion of the President’s decision to withdraw the US military presence from Russia (a mistake of course, because ‘those people’ can’t be trusted.)

Finally, Freddie relaxes in her wingback chair and sighs indulgently, letting her blouse drop ever so slightly off her shoulder. “It really is lovely to see dear Bucky doing so well. I was hoping the Army might contact me after I saw a Barnes cat on television.”

“Oh!” Steve says, relieved that she finally got to the point of their meeting before he had to interrupt her political tirade. “I’m glad you remember him.”

“Of course I do,” she says, with a gasp that should accompany pearl-clutching, like the thought that she might not remember one of the hundreds of cats that passed through her empire was downright insulting. “Bucky was the one that got away,” she adds with a knowing raise of her eyebrows. “If those spots had appeared before he came of age, we never would have sold his license to the Army of all places. To think, a beautiful thoroughbred like that, wasted in some Russian dirt hole.”

Steve’s immediate reaction is an accommodating smile, showing patience when someone talks about something they know nothing about, but it’s difficult. “Bucky was actually my personal SCF—er, Soldier Companion Feline—when I was deployed in infantry. He saved my life at least half a dozen times. Saved a lot of lives in the occupation. I can promise you he certainly hadn’t been wasted, ma’am.”

Freddie gives a disregarding little handwave at the statement. “Well, it goes to show what you can do with cats who are bred with dignity and care. Not some kennel rat.” Steve flinches. That term is so derogatory he’s not sure if he’s ever heard it used in casual conversation before, but she goes on, not noticing his disgust. “The pride of my family is to treat _them_ like family. Cats are really not so different from you or I, believe it or not.”

“Is that so,” Steve says, maintaining his smile with pure grit and determination. Luckily he’s saved from saying more when then the maid comes back into the parlour, this time carrying a silver tray with a crystal decanter. Steve’s internal monologue dryly guesses that it’s French.

Without asking, Mrs. Barnes has the maid pour two glasses, and offer one to Steve. “Thank you,” he says when he accepts the drink just to be polite. The maid gives a small curtsy with her ears, like the feline at the bagel shop had. He hopes Mrs. Barnes doesn’t care that he continues to hold it in his hands without taking a sip. The Scotch is so cheap that he can smell it without bringing it close to his face. “Well, Mrs. Barnes—”

“Freddie.”

“Freddie,” Steve nods because he physically can’t smile any wider. “I hope that means what I’m going to ask won’t be too impossible, with that in mind. I would like to bring Bucky back here, maybe reunite him with his family. Something that gives people an opportunity to see the warmer side of him. So far everything I’ve been able to show is from his military career, combat accomplishments and such.” Steve also wants a chance for Bucky to just see his family again, and if he can make that happen he’ll come up with any flimsy excuse for the campaign to support it.

“Oh, you mean in order to humanize him? What a delightful idea!” Mrs. Barnes says, and reaches over to touch the maid as she walks past, heading out of the parlor. “Winnie, darling,” Mrs. Barnes says, guiding the surprised servant back around to the front of her chair with only two fingers. “Did you hear that? This lovely young man is from the Pentagon. He’d like to talk show a little something about Bucky’s life here. You’d like to see him again, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s very nice, madam,” the feline says. Her tone is polite, even, and very quiet. Perfectly measured, like and actress from an old black and white movie. The whole exchange strikes Steve as being somewhat morbid, though he can’t quite put his finger on why.

“You remember Bucky, don’t you?” Mrs. Barnes says, with an encouraging nod. “Your fourth litter, I believe. You must be so proud that one of your kittens is being honored for being a hero. By the President!”

Something makes a fist around Steve’s heart when the pieces fall into place. The feline with the striking blue eyes that took his coat and served him coffee and Scotch is Bucky’s _mother._

“That’s very nice, madam,” Winnie says again, an exact repeat of her previous words. “But I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have any kittens.”

“Ah, of course,” Mrs. Barnes says, tittering slightly with nervous laughter. “I’m sure you’re right. Why don’t you go ahead and leave me and Captain Rogers now. We can discuss this later.” Steve still can’t find his voice, even after Winnie leaves the room, so Mrs. Barnes flutters her hand at him as if to reassure a child. “She’ll be fine once she sees him,” she insists. “I just didn’t want to stress the poor thing out. I’m afraid she’s never been the same since her mate died. A bit joyless, never likes to speak about any of her litters! A dowager queen is still a queen in the Barnes family, so of course we kept her on even after she passed her breeding years, but it’s been trying.”

“Of course,” Steve mechanically agrees.

“We’re all so proud of her accomplishments,” Mrs. Barnes adds, beaming into her glass, though Steve suspects she takes the credit for those accomplishments at every opportunity for herself. “Beautiful cats, across the board, though her and George only gave us two snow leopards. Of course Becca sold for ten times what the Army paid for Bucky’s initial license.” She rolls her eyes. “Like I said. The one that got away.”

“Becca? Is that Bucky’s sibling?”

The perfect cubes of ice clink in Mrs. Barnes’s glass when she nods. “Littermate,” she corrects. “And identical twin! I should have known Bucky’s spots would come in late, since he was late coming out!” She laughs at her own joke and drains the remainder of Scotch from her glass. “I was hoping to sell them as a bonded pair, but without spots he wasn’t very appealing to the record label that wanted Becca. Of course they changed her name as soon as she set foot in Japan. I just breed them though, it’s not my business if my customers want one and not the other!”

“Wait,” Steve says, ignoring the woman’s sudden anxiety. “Bucky’s twin was purchased by a Japanese record label?”

“Yes, darling,” she drawls. “That’s what it means to be a Barnes cat. Celebrity companions, actors, performers. Becca is a famous Kitty Pop singer, though I couldn’t tell you which one. All those silly cat names from Japan sound the same to me.”

“Neko Yuki-chan,” he breathes out. “Neko Yuki-chan is Bucky’s sister.”

“That’s the one! It’s a shame really. Their kittens would be worth a fortune if they both hadn't been registered, but now the CFC would never allow a littermate match. Six figures in the US, easily.” She thinks a moment about what she just suggested, then reconsiders. “Seven, in Europe.”

Incest. Mrs. Barnes is talking about incest. Breeding Bucky with his twin in order to produce humanoid felines with snow leopard markings. Suddenly the drink in Steve’s hand looks a lot more attractive. He clears his throat and stands, because he can’t keep up the charade any longer, and puts the glass aside. “Thank you for your time, ma’am,” he says. “I actually need to head back to Stark Tower. I’ve got an important meeting with the— director. Of the Joint Chiefs. My boss.” He coughs, trying to stem the tide of excuses. “I’ll have my assistant call you with more information.”

“Oh my,” she said, standing with him. “I hope your assistant is as handsome as you are.”

“She’s a very lovely woman,” he quickly asserts, though he knows he’ll just let Private Lorraine know that she can block any incoming calls from this horrible human being. “I’ll show myself out.”

After he snatches up his hat and his scarf from the huge brass hooks in the foyer he catches sight of Winnie, standing at the end of the hall. Her hands are clutched under her chin, as if she had been awkwardly standing by to be called and now isn’t sure what to do now that he’s taken care of himself. “It was nice meeting you, Winnie.”

Bucky’s mother’s ears collapse in fear and she takes two backwards steps before she vanishes around the corner.

It takes a few minutes for Steve to catch his breath after he extracts himself, already several blocks down Prospect Park before he comes to a stop to get his bearings. His blood is singing in his ears and his heart races out of control. The last time he felt like this he had just survived a firefight.

That woman. That house. _Winnie._

When Steve found out that Bucky’s former keepers had been alive and well, Steve wondered why he hadn’t returned to them rather than chose to live on the streets. Now he understands. He feels like he understands a lot about Bucky’s life, and even the lives of cats in general. Neko Yuki-chan. _Becca._ Sold to a record label in Japan when she was six years old. That is the honest to god best life a cat could hope for.

Steve takes the subway back. Even though it’s rush hour, something about being buried in the crowds of the bustling trains makes him feel better. Anonymous. Surrounded by hundreds of people who don’t give a shit. Cats and their keepers, homeless people, students, families. It’s like if every single person that crossed his path in the park earlier that day had been shoved in there with him, all at once.

That woman. That house.

Steve puts his face in his hands. “Oh, Bucky...”  

* * *

After Captain Rogers leaves for his errand, Bucky immediately feels restless. Tony is busy working until later that evening and the gym is boring, full of humans this time of day, so he buys a smoothie with some of the pocket money that the captain left him and explores. Stark Tower has three art galleries, two gardens (one tropical, one local) and several private restaurants for the dozens of various offices and departments throughout the company. At a certain point even the tower in all its magnificence becomes stifling, and soon Bucky is walking down Park Avenue by himself, enjoying the fresh, chilled air.

Earlier, Rogers had told him that some pictures from his photoshoots that weekend had become popular, with hundreds of thousands of hits across social media. Mostly Bucky considers his fame to be the captain’s success more so than his own. Bucky only agreed to this whole project for Rogers to begin with. Still, it’s not entirely lost on him that some people might recognize him by now, even without the metal arm acting as a big, flashy distraction. It’ll only get worse, once those fashion photoshoots start trickling onto the internet.

He doesn’t exactly plan to wander all the way down to the Meatpacking District. He doesn’t pay much attention to anything but his nose as it guides him over the familiar streets, through the stinking alleys, and between overstuffed gutters. When he finds himself standing across the street from Karpov’s massive, decaying warehouse, he waits outside in the dim street light for a long time, watching cats go in and out of the massive metal door that operates as the tenement’s main point of entry.

He hadn’t planned to come here. He certainly hadn’t planned to walk inside, like he still lived there.

Everything seems dirtier than he remembers, once he finally shoves his way past the heavy door. The floors are black with grime, the moldy furniture stinks with urine and vomit, and trash has gathered in all the corners of the small common area. Cats perk up when he walks in, sunken eyes widening over hollow cheeks, and Bucky immediately realizes he no longer resembles anything like these pathetic, skinny creatures. Bucky’s new clothes alone are worth more money than these cats would likely see in their short, miserable lives. And then there’s his collar, flashing against his throat like police siren in the middle of the night.

Some of the ferals lay their ears back, showing aggression as they cautiously back away. Some peek at him with interest from behind the windows and splintered doorways of the wide open space. Many of the cats just get up from the rotting, uncovered mattresses and slink off.

Bucky feels confused by what he sees, disoriented by memories that don’t quite match up with his expectations. Had Bucky really been one of these miserable animals just two short months ago? What the hell is Bucky even doing there, now? What does he need to prove to them?

“Bucky,” comes a voice behind him, and he cautiously turns to greet Leo as the other cat hops towards him. Leo has a gimped hand, broken too many times and never set properly, so he quads on all threes, like Bucky had been before he got the prosthetic. “Never thought we’d see you again.”

His tone is pleasant, neutral, but his ears are looking for an answer to a different question. The same one Bucky is asking himself; _what the fuck are you doing here?_

“Didn’t plan on coming back,” Bucky admits. He asks a question he already knows the answer to, because he can smell him, “Karpov around?”

Leo isn’t happy with that answer, his tail twitching irritably behind him. “Sure,” he says slowly, drawing out the word as he circles Bucky. “Not sure if he’s got time for a housecat, though.”

Bucky shows his teeth and Leo backs up carefully. Leo’s a big cat, not as big as Bucky or even Brock, but big enough to be a problem. Plus, like all cats in the tenement, he is likely hiding at least half a dozen knives under his clothes. Bucky has exactly zero, because he’s an idiot.

He can hear and smell the cats behind the furniture, watching him from the other rooms that ring the main warehouse floor, and up on the catwalks above. Watching intently. Circling him to gauge his intentions, like Leo is doing. “I kept confidence on Karpov’s operations,” Bucky explains. “Believe me the people at the Pentagon asked. I think that human owes me an explanation for why he left me at the CFC after the silicon job.”

Leo snorts a laugh. “We don’t owe you anything,” he snarls. “Keeping your mouth shut is part of the deal.”

“I wound up transferred to Washington DC,” Bucky hisses, leading with his chest into Leo’s personal space and flattening his ears, showing the other cat that he’s ready for a fight. “To the Red Room. _That’s_ not part of the deal.”

Bucky hears shocked whispers from the other cats, but Leo snickers boldly, showing one of his broken fangs. “Poor little soldier,” he whines, mocking him. “Never really understood how it works.”

The thin wooden door to the main warehouse office is nearly thrown off its hinges when Karpov kicks it open. “Enough, Leo,” the human wheezes. “Scat! All ya!” He shouts up to the rafters and Bucky can hear the others skitter away, done with eavesdropping now that the master of the house has shown up. Leo bows his head low to Karpov and immediately steps back. Bucky instinctively goes to do the same but he suddenly thinks of Captain Rogers and his chin lifts in defiance instead. Karpov smirks, like he had expected that.

Karpov is a huge man. Not tall, just _huge._ His red suit bulges at the seams, the buttons straining to hold his girth, like a bowling ball stuffed into baby clothes. Even his knit cap is pulled tight over his bald head, yarn coming undone and unspooling from the weave. “Alright Bucky. Look at you. All kept now. I’m proud!”

Bucky doesn’t buy it for a second. “I want to know why you abandoned me.”

Karpov wheezes when he laughs, but Bucky isn’t foolish enough to mistake that for weakness. He has seen Karpov beat other _humans_ to death with his bare hands before. “Aw, abandoned?” He laughs again, this time a sound more like clearing his throat. “You were one of my greatest assets. Not just some dirty kitten from a cardboard box.”

Ah, right. Bucky had forgotten. He hadn’t been Karpov’s best ‘lookout’, because that was a word used for his human crew. The cats of the tenement were all his assets instead, resources to be depleted or replenished, recruited from CFC education and job placement centers. It’s how they recruited Bucky after all, the last time he had been turned down for government assistance. “So then how did I get transferred to DC? To the labs? You never came and got me!”

Karpov gives a considering look, frowning deeply as he works out his reasoning. “You were my best asset. That just means you got the best price. The people at the CFC wanted you. Who was I to say no? I tell all ya when you join the crew: Business is business. If you’re good for business, I come getcha from the kennel. Turning down that much money? Bad business.”

Someone paid Karpov? To not claim him? Why? “Who paid you?”

Karpov laughs again. “Listen to him! He actually thinks he’s less of an animal now! Even with that thing around his neck? Ha!”

Leo laughs, and Bucky? Bucky finally backs down.

This explains why Karpov has kept so quiet, even after Bucky became so famous. Karpov could potentially ruin the captain’s campaign just by leaking a fraction of what Bucky had gotten up to the four and a half years he had lived here. The Russian is being honest though, he’s a businessman above all else, and if it had been profitable for him to leak this information he would have found a way. Bucky catches the familiar scent of fear, and looks up suddenly. Karpov has a line of sweat running from the top of his brow to the corner of his face, and his pupils are dilated. He doesn’t want Bucky here at all. Apparently, the kind of bribe Karpov had accepted is one that keeps him in line and _scared,_ and Karpov isn’t a man who scares easy.

Bucky rotates his ears, catching the sound of the others to make sure they don’t move as he makes his way towards the door.

“Bucky,” Leo says, suddenly emboldened, and Bucky puts his hears back to face him. “If you come back here, I’ll kill you.”

Well. When he put it like that. Bucky drops when he turns, using all the new strength in his upper body to launch towards Leo so quickly that the other cat has no chance to pull his knives. By the time they land Bucky’s claws are around his throat. The cats flip over, but Bucky twists Leo in mid-air so that his back hits the filthy floor. Leo bucks beneath him, but Bucky stomps on his knee and twists his gimped arm hard enough to make the cat scream in submission. “If I see you again,” Bucky growls, and lets Leo feel the claws break the skin of his throat. “I will kill you before you even know I’m there.”

Leo snarls and twists beneath him, but his ears hug the side of his head and his eyes are blown wide with fear. Bucky snaps at his face, releases him, and watches him sprint away. When he turns back around, Karpov has a pistol in his hand. “You paid someone good money to get their hands on me,” Bucky reasons blandly, then he points to his license. “You think they don’t know where I am?”

Karpov smiles. Steps aside. Even without a tail or ears, Bucky can read the human’s offer to make use of the front door and never come back.

It’s okay. He doesn’t intend to.

* * *

That night, after dinner with Pepper and Tony, after showers and precious little conversation, Bucky climbs under the covers with Steve and puts his head on Steve’s stomach. Instead of purring, Bucky thumps his tail, and after a long time Steve finally breaks the strained silence. “Everything okay, Buck?”

“No, sir.” Bucky admits. He squirms a little and Steve lifts his arms, giving the cat space to reposition himself under the heavy blankets. Bucky winds up practically flat on top of him, then pushes his face out from under the covers until he frees his ears. “Do you know how I wound up at the Triskelion?”

Steve frowns. His hands naturally come to rest on Bucky’s waist, and he rubs circles into Bucky’s hips with his thumbs as he thinks. “No. It’s been bothering me though. I don’t even know how I wound up at the Triskelion when I did. Finding you there. It’s an impossible coincidence.”

“We’re being manipulated,” Bucky reasons and Steve nods.

It’s true. He’s known it for some time. Natasha brought him there, but she hadn’t brought Bucky. SHIELD is definitely a part of it, but not all, and Steve knows he’s just as lost as his cat as far as deciphering the big picture. “If we’re being manipulated, then someone is manipulating the entire J-5 Directorate. Maybe even the entire JCS.”

“I think it started on Sakhalin. When we got attacked by a Swedish terrorist and dropped down into a nuclear reactor heat sink.” Bucky huffs and puts his chin on Steve’s chest, looks up at him under the dark fringe of his hair. “When I killed that Russian cat, and he demanded I hail Hydra, with his dying breath.”

Steve frowns, remembering the fight. The smell of mortars in the night air. He hadn’t been close enough to hear the cat’s last words, and he had been worried when Bucky had been wounded by its claws. The same claws as Black Panther. The same claws as Bucky, now. “What if it wasn’t a command?” He says, just thinking out loud. “What if it was a warning?”

Bucky thinks for a moment. “You mean like, ‘Hail Hydra, or else’?”

Maybe. “How common are cats in Russia? Their military trained felines all come from the US exchange program. How did the RNS get cats willing to kill humans? To kill Americans?”

Even in the dark, Steve can see Bucky’s skeptical smile. “It’s not as impossible as you might think to convince cats to kill humans…”

“Don’t say that when I have my arms around you,” Steve sighs, and tightens his grip around Bucky’s slim waist until the cat exhales and drops his head onto Steve’s chest. It should be strange to be so close, to let his fingers play in the dip of Bucky’s spine, to caress the firmness of his hips, and not be aroused. Friendship with defined boundaries. Intimacy without sex. It’s a hard line to walk when he watches his gorgeous companion and wants to taste his skin. Steve is aware how difficult it can be for Bucky too, and knows about his late night showers that he returns from cold and shivering. For some reason, tonight it’s different for both of them.

Steve can’t stop thinking about Bucky’s beautiful, sad mother. He'll talk to him about it, but not tonight.

Steve kisses the top of Bucky’s head, inhales the scent of his damp hair and rubs his cheeks against the soft fur of his ears. “I know there’s something going on. Something important. Something dangerous.” Bucky’s left ear twitches when Steve goes in to scratch behind the right, and he curls tighter into Steve’s body. He’s wearing pajamas and his body is like a furnace, tail curled on top of Steve’s ankles and gently flexing as Bucky relaxes. “Sometimes I just don’t care, because I have you.” It’s as close as he has come to saying _I love you,_ when the cat has been awake.

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a long time, and just as Steve starts to drift into a light sleep he is startled awake by the deep rumble of Bucky’s purr against his chest.

 _Me too,_ that purr says to him. _Me too._

* * *

Since our characters have been exploring things from their past, check out this amazing illustration from [Coldcigarettes](http://coldcigarettes.tumblr.com/post/159536559556/resinonao3-commissioned-me-for-a-scene-from-her), of poor Steve and Bucky after they got attacked by a Swedish terrorist and dropped down into a nuclear reactor heat sink. (Click for full size!) 

[ ](http://68.media.tumblr.com/113146a14c155887f171d2eb2d782e8f/tumblr_ood4bk7BAl1qdkr6uo1_1280.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy! That chapter wound up being a bit darker than I had thought. Hopefully I can make up for it in the next chapter, with that big payoff we've all been waiting for ;) 
> 
> No promises!


	18. Participation Trophy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger Warning* for this chapter: Non-consensual touching/handling (Brock/Bucky) 
> 
> GLOSSARY
> 
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

If Bucky could pace in the car, he would.

Instead, his ears obnoxiously insist on catching every little sound as it whizzes by, and his tail keeps up a constant fidget between the seat and the door. He clutches at the seat belt where it crosses over his chest, just to hang onto something as the car pulls onto L Street where the Secret Service field office sits in an innocuous grey building. So far Rogers has done a good job, keeping all the worry that darkens his face from making its way into something out loud.

Still, Bucky knows the human hates this.

Of course, after blindsiding Bucky earlier that morning with the news about his little field trip in New York, Bucky doesn’t actually feel all that sorry for the captain. It had been a hard thing to listen to, and even harder to picture. Bucky’s mother in the same room as Captain Rogers, taking his coat, serving him coffee. Freddie talking about Bucky’s childhood, his littermate and his spots. Rogers insists that Bucky’s mother is doing well, looks healthy and well cared for, but Bucky suspects otherwise. Really, he’s glad the captain hadn’t asked him to come along, he’d be damned before he’d tolerate another cold glance and indifferent scent from his own mother again. Despite that, finding out about it after the fact had made him feel strange. Embarrassed and foolish and so very _other_ compared to the Rogers himself, like Bucky’s old life had been in some alternate universe that Rogers had accidentally stumbled into on his way home.

Bucky looks up at the building as the captain stops to park. He really doesn’t have time to parse all those feelings out right now. “Captain,” he starts, watching carefully as if Brock himself might just pass by one of the huge glass windows. “I think… I have a lot to ask him. He might not talk if there are humans watching.”

“What are you trying to say?” Rogers frowns over his steering wheel, gripping it tightly as he angles the car into a parallel parking spot on the street. He had been so soft with Bucky all morning, speaking in gentle tones, watching for an emotional reaction to the news about his mother. So far Bucky had managed to mostly ignore it. Still, Rogers had promised that he’d work from home after they are done with this particular errand, and even though Bucky is worried the captain is going to fall into his over-protective routine again he appreciates the sentiment. Bucky suspects the captain is holding a lot back when he quietly asks, “Are you asking me to leave you alone with him?”

So far Bucky hasn’t asked the captain for anything. Although, maybe had asked for shoes when he had first arrived, but he isn’t too sure. His memory of the first few days out of the kennel are all foggy by now. Does he really want to use his first favor on Brock? “It’s your decision, sir,” Bucky hedges. “I just. I just thought maybe he would say more about Hydra and Ward if maybe he thought you weren’t listening.”

Rogers hates it so much he stares at his steering wheel like it’s his blood enemy. “Fuck,” he says under his breath, then groans. “I don’t trust that cat.”

“I can handle him.” He’s pretty sure, anyway.

Rogers puts the car into reverse again, straightens out, and puts the car in park, focusing so intently on the task that Bucky suspects he using it to give himself time to think about his answer. Finally, the human turns off the car, breathes heavily out through his nose, and drops his hands into his lap. “Like you handled him before?”

Bucky snorts at that. “If I hadn’t been in heat, I would have owned Brock’s ass.”

He expects Rogers to appreciate the joke, but instead the captain just glances up and stares miserably out of the window. “And you’re not now? In heat?”

Bucky watches Rogers, who hadn’t dared to meet his eyes when he asks the question, and for a moment wonders how he should take that. Humans can be completely blind, but could he really not tell when a cat is in heat? Rogers is wearing his uniform, service cap somewhere on the back seat, and Bucky wishes he could pull down the stiff, high collar of the captain’s dress shirt and lick his neck to reassure him. Instead he just leans across the center console. “If I was in heat,” he breathes into the captain’s human ear. “You’d know it.”

“Jesus,” Rogers whispers, and rubs his ear onto his shoulder like Bucky had stuck his tongue in it.

 _Hm,_ Bucky thinks. Do humans enjoy that sort of thing?

The thought backfires, like it always does when Bucky thinks about putting his mouth on Captain Rogers, so he pulls back, unbuckles from his seat, and gets out before his pants get any tighter. Getting a boner right before he sees the one cat that ever dominated him would be just perfect. At least he’s thoroughly distracted from complicated thoughts of his family by now.

Even though the building is completely unmarked on the outside, with glass doors and cheap looking blinds covering the windows, as soon as they step into the lobby it’s clear that it’s a high security facility. They walk past a team of armed agents in body armor, all with their own hunting cats in uniforms not unlike SCFs. There’s four cats altogether, and they keep their ears forward as they’ve been trained to do when Bucky passes by, but he knows they are scenting him in particular. They are much smaller than him but surprise him with their bold suspicious frowns, and one after the other they break decorum and give an arrogant twist to their tails. Several of them shift to follow him with their cool, narrow eyes, then all at once their glances cut between Bucky and Captain Rogers.

They _know._

They won’t say anything about it, but they know— or at least they _think_ they know about Bucky and the captain’s relationship. They think the captain is fucking him, think that he’s using the ownership of Bucky’s license to force him, and a cat that gets forced by a human is the most submissive creature on the planet. It hardly matters that Bucky is so big, a thoroughbred or the Winter Soldier. Being fucked by a human automatically makes him a housecat. A pet.

Bucky glares back at them as hard as he can as Rogers signs in at the front desk, lays his ears back and lets them know to mind their own fucking business with a whip of his tail. They don’t really seem to care. The agent checking them in is young, wearing a drab grey suit, ill fitted to his very large frame, and lazily drooping eyelids that give him the look of someone who is constantly drowsy. He directs them both to walk through a metal detector, even after Rogers had warned them about Bucky’s prosthetic, and it’s promptly set off.

The guard makes a few dissatisfied grunts, apparently terribly inconvenienced by having to use a handheld device to scan Bucky’s body while he holds his metal arm out to the side. The hunting cats continue to stare at him, and one even goes so far as to grin and suggest with his ears that the captain had dominated him that morning. Bucky has to challenge him there on the spot with a show of his teeth, all while the guard huffs over the readout on his device.

“Can he take that off?” The guard finally asks Captain Rogers, who had been too distracted by the security guard’s floundering to notice the cats’ behavior.

Instead of explaining how complicated removing the prosthetic would be he snaps, “Can you take _your_ fucking arm off?” Apparently, Rogers doesn’t appreciate the man’s tone.

“Sorry, sir,” the man says immediately, standing upright as if he was fighting off a compulsion to salute him all of a sudden. Definitely an ex-Army grunt. Maybe even a wash out. “Agent Sitwell should be waiting for you upstairs.”

“Thank you, Agent Altman.” That poor, poor bastard. Bucky wonders if this is how an innocent bystander feels. In _Feline-1-1,_ there’s always some uninvolved citizen that witnesses a murder and is powerless to stop it.

Bucky only speaks again after he has a guest badge hanging from around his neck and the elevator doors shut out the rest of the lobby. Without turning to look at the captain he asks, “Taking out your frustration about Brock on the front desk staff?”

“Yup,” Rogers confirms, nodding firmly and leaves it at that. The elevator right is long enough that he drifts close to Bucky, enough so that his shoulder appears to casually brush Bucky’s own. It usually happens when the captain is agitated or too tired to tolerate stress, and even though the touch is feather light, Bucky always feels as if he’s holding a great weight on the captain’s behalf by not moving away from it. Really, it helps them both; neither of them enjoy elevator rides.

As they approach the seventh floor, Rogers surprises him by suddenly speaking. “I’ll try to convince Sitwell to leave the room with me. Make it quick.”

Bucky’s ears react to that, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he immediately tries to imagine how he can reveal his fears about Rogers, the President, maybe even Project Insight and everything in between to fucking Brock of all people. He’d have to be fast, but not come off as too desperate or weak, or else Brock would pounce on that weakness in a heartbeat.

Bucky’s strategy quickly falls apart when the elevator doors glide open, and Brock is standing right there in the hallway, like he had been waiting for them. “Agent Sitwell, sir,” Brock deadpans. His expression is mild, but Bucky can see the fur on the other cat’s ears stand on end when his golden eyes lock onto Bucky’s. “It looks like your appointment is here.” His thick arms are crossed over his chest and his orange striped tail swings out wide as he scents the air from the elevator.

“Brock,” Rogers says. Bucky is impressed by how flawlessly the captain steps off the elevator, like he had expected to see the other hunter just standing there as he heads into the small, top floor reception area. “Good to see you again.”

Brock bows his ears, takes a step out of the captain’s path, then turns to stare at Bucky. For some reason leaving the elevator is difficult for Bucky, and he has to force his legs to move or else risk showing far too much vulnerability to the other big hunter. Brock’s face falls when Bucky passes by, and he looks sharply back at the captain, even more interested now that he’s caught Bucky’s scent.

Fuck.

A man in a flawless charcoal suit turns away from the upstairs front desk, opening his hands wide like he’s welcoming them both into his kingdom. “Captain Rogers! Sorry about the mix up at security,” he says, congenially enough. He’s short for a human, and looks like a politician. “I had already briefed security on the Winter Soldier, so I don’t know what Altman was thinking with all that metal detector nonsense.” But Bucky sees the sweat on the temples of his bald head and knows he’s lying. Sitwell pushes up his wire-frame glasses before he takes the captain’s hand in a single, firm shake. “Ah,” he says, with an arrogant laugh. “This must be the President’s famous Winter Soldier.”

What a fucking genius.

“Agent Sitwell,” Rogers greets. “It’s nice to meet you in person. Thank you for agreeing to this debrief. We’re working on some messaging about some of the Winter Soldier’s past missions,” he explains, while Bucky does his best to keep his back to Brock, making a show of paying him no attention whatsoever. “Since some of these are still classified, I would like an opportunity to discuss them with your hunter, here.”

“You want to talk to _Brock?”_ Sitwell blurts out, not bothering to hide his skepticism. His smile only hits one side of his mouth, solidifying the idea that he’s definitely a politician in training, at the very least. Bucky hates him. “You want to talk to my cat?”

“Is that a problem, Agent?”

Sitwell watches Rogers carefully as he visibly negotiates with himself if he should allow it or not. “Of course not,” he wisely decides. “Just surprised that the JCS is taking testimony from these dumb animals. Didn’t think you boys were that desperate.”

Bucky watches a vein in the captain’s neck pop up like a hammer hitting an anvil when he smiles in response. Agent Sitwell isn’t nearly so observant, so he carelessly chatters away with the kind of small talk people always seem to have with Captain Rogers as he leads them down a hall to a meeting room. The terrible weather in DC. The military pull-out from Russia. General Rogers. The private sector being ‘totally out of control’, like Stark Industries.

Instead of paying much attention to the captain’s responses (he already knows them all by heart now, anyway) Bucky is painfully aware of Brock’s presence beside him. Brock looks good. He’s gained a few more pounds and a few new scars, but otherwise appears nearly the same as Bucky remembered. Strong, confident, with sharp eyes and a glossy flank. He still wears his hair disconcertingly short and maybe even shorter than he had on Sakhalin, to the point where the stripes on his scruff are visible on the side of his face.

Worse than that, Brock still _smells_ good. Tangy copper, fresh cut grass and a little bit of burnt toast. It’s overpoweringly masculine. Dominant. Both repulsive and alluring at the same time. Bucky recognizes the instinct to put distance between himself and the other hunter, knows it’s the same reason other, smaller cats avoid him in public too.

Used to avoid him, anyway.

The cats are the first into the small meeting room near the back of the building, and Bucky instinctively scents the room like always. There’s a monitor mounted on the wall above a small four-person conference table, displaying a photograph of Capitol Hill as it sits in standby mode. There’s no windows, except for the one slit of glass in the heavy door. “Hold on,” Rogers says, scowling down at the tablet mounted outside the room, where Sitwell just tapped in some information. “I’m sorry, is this meeting system compliant with the new WS-45 protocol?”

“WS-45?” Sitwell repeats, utterly disinterested. “I haven’t heard of that one, but I’m sure it is.”

Steve heaves a deep sigh, like he’s just had it with all these pesky little protocols. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. Can I talk to your security administrator? It’ll only take a few minutes. I can’t disclose any intel pertaining to Winter Soldier operations without confirmation that the mobile interface systems are all compliant with the new protocols.”

Sitwell gapes at Rogers, one hand on the back of the chair he just pulled out from the conference table, lips parted in shock. This time he really doesn’t look like he believes him at all, but he grits his teeth. “Of course.”

“Bucky. Stay here,” Rogers orders, so Bucky takes a parade rest stance and raises his chin, planting himself inside the room, opposite of the table from Brock. “No sense in dragging the cats all over the place,” Rogers adds to Sitwell with a shrug.

“Oh. Sure.” Sitwell opens his mouth, reconsiders for a heartbeat, then shakes his head in defeat. “Brock. You stay too.” Apparently, he’s not interested in leaving a strange cat alone in the small conference room. “Should only take about ten minutes to walk the captain through our security compliance.”

“Yes, sir,” Brock answers firmly, but respectfully, and mirrors Bucky’s stance.

Before Bucky knows it, he and the other cat are alone together. It’s impossible for Bucky to avoid inhaling that masculine scent trapped in the small room with them. In one single heartbeat a cascade of emotions tumble through his mind, triggering an instant recollection of fevered desperation brought on by unseasonal heat. Worse, his body remembers that deep, physical relief of sexual release. Bucky knows he’s stumbling already, replacing his uncomfortable memories of his family with uncomfortable memories about Brock.

It’s immediately confusing. Unwelcome. Bucky tries his best to ignore it.

“We don’t have much time,” Bucky starts, before he’s really ready to speak again. He can’t look at Brock so he stares at the door, where Rogers and Sitwell just left together and has to force himself to continue. “Is this room monitored?”

“God, I _still_ hate you,” Brock says, laughing instead of answering. “But boy were you a nice piece of ass.”

Brock’s bullshit answer hits Bucky like a cold bucket of water. He shoves a chair back under the table, closing the gap between them and snarls right into Brock’s face. “Don’t fuck with me Brock! Is the room monitored or not?”

Brock’s smirk is firm, but he speaks through his teeth when he answers. “Would I have said that if it was?”

Oh. Right. Bucky takes a step back. Lets out his energy with a few flicks of his tail. He needs to breathe. He’s been on edge all morning and falling for Brock’s baiting shit talk won’t help him get the answer he needs. “Alright. So I have to know about Captain Rogers.”

This time it’s Brock’s turn to look surprised. His brow rises skeptically, and Bucky can see now that he has a bit of puckered flesh by his left eye that he hadn’t noticed before. An old injury, but not that old. “I would have thought you’d know everything there was about that human.” He turns away, sniffs. “Sure smells like it, anyway.”

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses. It’d been impossible for Bucky to tell how much of the human’s scent clung to him, and how deeply, since he’s constantly surrounded by it. “Is it obvi— _fuck.”_

Brock barks out a laugh when Bucky swears. “I’m guessing you do,” he says, because he’s still _such_ a bastard. He casually spins around one of the chairs, helps himself to a seat, and rudely plants his boots up on another. He’s wearing a standard tactical kit for Secret Service cats— black compression shirt, tactical pants, and a full utility belt of knives. He still has the machete harness crossed over his broad chest, even though the weapons aren’t in their sheaths. The combat preparedness looks odd in this formal office space, but that is the role of a hunting cat after all. The reason Brock certainly doesn’t have to wear a muzzle in public. “If you’re looking for advice on that I don’t know what to tell—”

“Fucking hell, no.” Bucky kicks Brock’s feet off the other chair, and uses the open space to sit directly on the table. Close enough to keep their voices low, but above the other cat’s line of sight. Brock grins up at him from where he remains seated, unconcerned by being lower than him. “I need to know if Rogers was infected by Arnim Zola,” Buckys explains. “Like Ward. Like the President.”

Brock’s confident smile snaps apart in an instant, and his whole body goes rigid with tension. His bright orange tail coils up and his ears are stiff with effort to hold them still. “President Pierce is not like Arnim Zola.”

Bucky huffs. “Oh, come _on._ I’m sure you’ve smelled it by now! He _is_ Arnim Zola. They have the exact same scent. I could smell it even after he left the room. It was everywhere in the Pentagon when I—”

Brock stands up so suddenly his chair shoots out behind him and collides with the wall. Bucky doesn’t react, refusing to be intimidated when the other cat slams his hands down on either side of his hips before shoving his face into Bucky’s. “Don’t you dare say that again,” Brock warns him, showing all his teeth as he speaks. “Not around me.”

Bucky studies the other cat’s posture for a moment, not understanding how he could possibly be so honest and so wrong at the same time. Zola and Pierce. The exact same scent. He is _sure_ of it. Brock isn’t a very subtle cat though, and everything about his reaction—from the slivers of his pupils to the snarl in his voice—tells Bucky that he is sure it’s _not._ “And you used to call me a kiss ass,” Bucky finally says, quietly accepting Brock’s word by turning his ears out to show him he’s listening. He’s lost any standing he might have had as a dominant cat already anyway. “How the hell can you be so sure?”

“I just am,” Brock huffs and pushes off the table, putting space between them. Even he sounds frustrated by that being his best answer. “Look, I get that you wound up in the kennel and I don’t want any part of that, but the STRIKE team dissolved its feline unit too. I’m too old to go back for training, and if it weren’t for Pierce lettin’ me go through security certification before it was flooded with all the fuckin’ ferals from the rest of Russia I don’t know what would have happened.”

“You could always get gelded,” Bucky says, unimpressed with Brock’s sob story.

“Like you did?” Brock shoots back.

Fair point. Bucky’s balls ache just at the reminder at how close he came. Most male cats licensed to the private sector are desexed at age six. It’s complicated and painful to get the procedure as an adult. Especially a broke, homeless one. Brock is big enough to dominate an entire tenement if he had wanted to, but that’s about it as far as the old hunter’s options would be. Finding one that would accept such a big, combat trained cat in the first place would be the challenge. Bucky had pretty much been brought into Karpov’s because they thought the missing arm meant that he wouldn’t be a problem. Boy were they surprised.

Bucky relaxes as he considers what Brock told him, but he’s still confused. He knew what he scented in the Captain’s office. He knew what he saw, down in that hole. They were one in the same. “I don’t understand. I was so sure…”

“Is that what this is all about? Your whole visit to Secret Service?” Brock folds his arms across his broad chest again, arm hair thick enough that Bucky can see the stripes in it. Brock’s tiger pattern is such a dominant trait that it’s bizarre to Bucky that he had wound up in the Army. Surely, with that bright orange coloring on his flank his breeders would have known he had been a thoroughbred from an early age. Even if his stripes had come in late like Bucky’s spots. Brock leans one shoulder against the wall and frowns. “So now you’re paranoid? Pickin’ up Zola’s scent everywhere you go? Worried your human got whatever happened to Ward?”

“No. It’s just—” _Yes._ That’s exactly what’s happening. Paranoia can be a side-effect of an anxiety disorder, according to Dr. Simmons. “I just needed a second opinion. Zola did get Rogers, down in the hole. He hit him all the way from inside the elevator with that _thing—”_

“Tentacle. Yeah. I know,” Brock huffs, his ears turning impatiently back and forth as if to say, _I was there, remember?_ “I don’t know what to tell you, kitten. President ain’t got nothing to do with Zola. Never smelled it on your captain, neither. But, uh,” he makes a rude sound. “I feel like you’d know better’n anyone about that.”

“Fuck.” Maybe Brock’s right. Maybe he had just had some kind of panic attack because of the muzzle and the stress. If Brock and Rogers agree that the President of the United States is not Zola, then Bucky’s own sense are lying to him. Bucky is so confused he’s starting to get a headache. He feels so very tired of all his vigilance, and now apparently he’s seeking out threats that just aren't there.

Rogers had held him in his arms like Bucky had been some precious treasure, had found his family and risked everything for Bucky’s chance to speak with Brock, just because Bucky had asked. Other cats all see Rogers as some monster by now, forcing himself on Bucky, even though Rogers would never touch him, not like that.

It’s all painfully unfair.

Sometimes Bucky’s actual life feels just out of his reach, like he’s stuck on the outside of a window looking in as things happen to him. A hapless feline extra on TV, constantly making the same mistakes over and over again. Maybe it’s time to just let it go?

“I just got turned down for security classification.” Bucky changes the subject smoothly, grinning up at Brock. “Idiots still think I’m disabled.” He holds up his metal elbow, flaps his new arm and grins.

Brock snorts, his tail smoothly swinging around as he steps away from. “Well, I don’t recommend it. They quarantine you for two weeks and give you shots up your ass with the biggest needle you’ve ever seen. Makes you stupid for days.”

Bucky frowns. “What kind of shots?”

Both cats freeze, catching the sound of the humans coming down the hall. Rogers and Sitwell are still some ways away, arguing about something, taking their time coming back to the meeting room. Brock turns a nasty smile back to Bucky. “So,” he says. “You want me to take care of that scent?”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Bucky whispers harshly. The humans couldn’t possibly hear them from where they are, but he keeps his voice low anyway.

“Just thought I’d do an ol’ war buddy a favor.” Brock gives a little shrug like he couldn’t care less. “Other cats will tear you apart for it, eventually. Rogers can’t protect you from that.”

“Ugh,” Bucky sticks out his tongue in disgust. He hates Brock so much, but the cat is right. Even if their assumptions are dead wrong, if the cats at the Pentagon started scenting Bucky and the captain’s close physical relationship, it might ruin him. Bucky will have to stop sleeping in the human’s bed. Brock’s overpowering pheromones would go a long way to neutralize the captain’s invading human markers, and Bucky could just stick to sleeping in his chair. It would suck to leave the captain to sleep alone at night but who knows, maybe he’ll come back and start sleeping on the sofa again.

Bucky leans his head to one side, exposing the side of his neck. “Hurry up.”

Brock falls on Bucky quickly, licks the side of his neck and presses their chests together. “Mmm,” he hums in between wide swipes of his rough tongue. “Still taste so good, kitten.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky whispers. Brocks angles his hips between Bucky’s spread knees, and Bucky cringes as the other cat licks away the human’s scent. It’s not something he had picked up with his own nose, but he already misses it. It almost seems like that had been what made what he felt for the captain real, even if it had been dangerously misleading.

So long ear scritches.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Bucky pushes against the other cat, but Brock locks the hard bar of his arm against Bucky’s back and digs his teeth in. Bucky hisses and pulls away, more sharply this time, before trying to shove himself off the table.

Consent is the most important thing to a human, Rogers had told him. _Every time._

Brock isn’t trying to have sex with him, but he’s trying to arouse him, to play his power game again where he can dominate Bucky, one last time. What is it about Brock that makes Bucky so fucking stupid? He never should have listened to the bastard.

Who cares if his scent is permanently altered by the captain’s? Who cares if he has to put some power grabbing males in their place? Other humans will never know, and other cats can go fuck themselves. Bucky is no less dominant just because he wants to be close to the human that keeps him. It’s not like Rogers could fuck him _shorter._

“Fucking— get _off_ me,” Bucky snaps. A lightning bolt of both pleasure and pain zings up Bucky’s spine when Brock grabs the base of his tail, and Bucky gasps with a small cry. He snarls and practically leaps off the table, slamming them both up and into the wall.

“Bucky, stand down!” Captain Rogers shouts. Brock and Bucky spring apart immediately, but the damage is done. A dent in the drywall from Brock’s elbow. A gouge in the wooden tabletop from Bucky’s claws. Two of the chairs had wound up askew, still spinning. In that brief moment, both cats had been so determined to kill each other they hadn’t even heard the humans enter the room. Bucky puts his metal hand behind his back, hoping Sitwell doesn’t notice the claws as they retract into his fingertips.

“Brock, what the fuck! Stupid _fucking_ cats...” Agent Sitwell steps aside so he can sweep his arm out of the room. “Go! Get the fuck out of here. Get!” Brock immediately follows orders, tail stiff between his legs and ears laid low. He doesn’t look back at Bucky as he skulks out of the room, but his nose turns towards Rogers for a brief moment when he passes him into the hall.

 _No,_ Brock’s body language tell Bucky, just before he disappears around the corner. _He’s definitely not one of them._

“I thought your Winter Soldier was _trained,_ Captain Rogers,” Sitwell snaps, smoothing down the front of his suit even though he hadn’t exactly done anything to muss it up. “Clearly, that was a mistake.”

“I could say the same for yours!” Rogers argues, glaring back at him. “Bucky’s never gotten into a skirmish the entire time he’s been with the Winter Soldier program and all of a sudden he’s fighting? Your hunter was _clearly_ out of line.”

Bucky watches carefully for Sitwell’s reaction, and the small human nearly turns purple with rage. Captain Rogers just _lied_ for him, because he knows full well that Bucky punched Tony Stark right in the mouth. Bucky is perfectly aware of the role he’s supposed to play, so he humbly steps back to give the two humans space to argue.

After so much back and forth Rogers insists that they leave, and at that point Sitwell is all too happy to see them gone. The debrief is officially over, and the two of them are escorted out by security. Bucky notices the feline guard downstairs go wide-eyed when he passes, likely because they all know Brock’s scent by now. Mission accomplished, for better or worse.

Rogers strangles the steering wheel during the entire the drive home. He takes a few moments to finish it off once he’s parked in his unit’s spot, twisting so hard that the leather complains in his fists. Without releasing it, he asks, “Did you get what you needed?”

“Yes.” Bucky gulps when the human finally releases the steering wheel and can see the indents left by his fingers.

“Good, because you’re never going back there again.” Rogers looks so frustrated, so angry. Rogers hasn’t given him a command like that since— Well, since he had ordered Brock and Bucky apart five years ago, on Sakhalin.

Bucky nods. “Understood, sir.”

Rogers immediately relaxes, but doesn’t look any less mad, just less like he’s trying to rip his own car apart with his bare hands. He presses his back into the driver’s seat, stares up at the upholstered ceiling of his car. “I have to go back to work,” the captain tells Bucky, voice flat and cold. So much for working from home. “You have the dial in information for National Defense magazine right?”

“Yes, sir.” He has the information, but he still doesn’t understand why he is doing this interview. Rogers seems to think they’ll be communicating about SCF access to the Stark prosthetics, but Bucky thinks the editor will just use this interview as an excuse to ask Captain Rogers about funding from the Pierce administration for future initiatives to replace SCFs. He wouldn’t dare bring that up now, though.

“So we’ll talk at 13:30,” Rogers tells him as Bucky gets out of the car. “Stay out of trouble.”

Bucky thinks about those last words on his way up the stairs. _Stay out of trouble,_ is something Bucky is used to hearing from humans. Like they figure that he can’t help himself but break some law, just by existing. Like he’s some delinquent feral by nature, or like he’s fucking Spanky from _Feline-1-1._ Either way, Captain Rogers had never said that to him before, and now Bucky is sure he doesn’t like it.

He also doesn’t exactly understand why Rogers is so damn upset. Bucky thought he had been clear when he said he could deal with Brock if he needed to. Now, Bucky realizes Rogers had been furious at him when he had torn into Agent Sitwell, channeling his very real anger into a show for the sputtering, annoying little man. Only after the captain had remained sullen and withdrawn all the way home did Bucky realize his error, and now he’s missed his opportunity to apologize. But why? What had the captain expected? A firm warning and a handshake? Or for Bucky to just give in, and let Brock take him again?

Bucky unlocks the front door, does a full circuit of the apartment, then heads back out to patrol the building. It’s a halfhearted effort, and he even skips the rooftop. He already knows humans haven’t been visiting since the rain and slushy snow had started. Come to think of it, the last human that told him to ‘stay out of trouble’ was that asshole in the swimming pool, the first week he had been living in the captain’s building.

Bucky know that if he stays in the apartment he’ll just wind up prowling, looking for trouble that isn’t there, so he swipes fresh snow off one of the benches in the enclosed courtyard and curls up with his phone. It’s cold out, even for him, so he’s glad he picked up his light jacket before he headed out. Still, it’s nice that the weather has trapped all the humans indoors. Bucky wraps his tail all the way up to his face as he loads up iTunes, then lets it play on speaker. He tries his best not to text Rogers as he listens to Neko Yuki-chan’s overly chiptuned voice sing in Japanese about uncomplicated, meaningless things like chocolate and high school.

He wonders if Captain Rogers got curious after he found out she had once been Bucky’s sister, and listened to any of her songs just to hear her voice. Bucky doesn’t think she sounds anything like the cat he remembers, but he doesn’t mind.

No matter how cheerful the lyrics or how upbeat the tempo, listening to her music always makes Bucky feel a little lost and sad, but it’s a welcome distraction from how angry Rogers had been with him. Not even angry, Bucky thinks miserably as Neko Yuki-chan starts up a new song about the sweetness of kisses.

Captain Rogers had been absolutely _pissed._

* * *

Steve is absolutely _pissed._ Whether at Bucky or Brock or himself, he isn’t sure, he just knows he wants to fight something. He wishes he could have punched Brock right in the dick. He’d have to answer to Agent Sitwell for that, but who knows? Maybe it’d be fun to punch Sitwell in the dick too. And really? Fuck the entire Secret Service. Those guys are always giving the JCS shit for their security protocol compliance every damn time the President visits, and half their shit turned out to be out of date in their own goddamn field office. On top of that, Steve had to pretend to care about it since that had been his bullshit excuse to leave Bucky alone with Brock.

“Fuck,” Steve grumbles, for absolutely no real reason other than he feels like swearing as he glares down at his inbox. He still has one hundred and thirty-seven unread emails, seventeen that are flagged as critical. Plus that goddamn editor with National Defense magazine just sent him more questions on “what comes next” for the President’s SCF program. “Fuck,” he says again, this time more in defeat than anything else. Now that he’s had a chance to cool off, he feels nothing but guilt for the way he had reacted earlier. He hadn’t even told Bucky good-bye before he sped off, like he could outrun his jealousy.

Back at the Secret Service field office, Steve had come back to the meeting room and immediately moved his broad shoulders in front of the small window, blocking Sitwell from looking inside. He had seen Bucky sitting on the table, Brock leaning in between his legs, mouth all over his exposed neck.

Steve’s face heats immediately at the thought, of how Bucky’s hips had thrust up into Brock’s when the other cat had grabbed ahold of him. In that split second, all of Steve’s nightmares had come true and his heart plunged into his stomach. Then Bucky attacked, and Steve isn’t entirely sure if he had thrown open the door before or after the cats had launched off the table.

Steve doesn’t know what he can’t seem to forgive Bucky for. Fighting? Or letting Brock touch him like that in the first place? It doesn’t matter. He needs to get over it and forgive him. At least try to understand what had even been happening in that room before he barged in and put a stop to it.

Steve shouldn’t have been so abrupt with Bucky when he dropped him off at home. Shouldn’t have left before they understood each other a little better. Either way, Steve definitely shouldn’t have come into the office. He’s distracted and frustrated, and not even doing his fucking job. He needs to get back and talk with Bucky like a grown up.

It just _hurts._

Steve sends a few quick follow up notes to Private Lorraine and sets his out of office. He’ll call in sushi on the way home and apologize to Bucky, and maybe Bucky will sit in Steve’s lap again and carefully explain things, slowly, so that Steve can understand. As he goes to close his laptop screen a notification comes in from an unknown address that stops him cold: _Want to meet me for lunch and chat about that vintage package you picked up in New York?_

“Fuck!”

* * *

It starts to snow again, the really wet, sticky stuff that Bucky’s fur seems to carry around like burrs. The captain’s apartment complex is huge, and the central courtyard is more like a small park, with patches of trees and several pathways used by the community of residents to quickly get from the garage to the many shops on the bottom level. Kids play here. People walk their dogs. If it hadn’t been for the weather, Bucky likely wouldn’t have been left alone for so long. Bucky takes a deep breath and shuts off his phone. The samples that he’d been listening to of Neko Yuki-chan’s songs had started to repeat anyway.

It’s frustrating that he has no credit cards to buy things online with, even if Rogers had given him cash as spending money. Can cats even have credit cards? Surely Tony must have one, he thinks. Bucky texts the other cat as he lazily walks back up to the apartment, but all Tony wants to know is what he wants one for.

When Tony asks him if it was for help with ‘ _cat emoji, arrow emoji, home emoji,’_ Bucky makes a disgusted sound and crams his phone back in his pocket. So nosy.

Could Rogers really blame him for shoving Brock into a wall? It had been the captain’s voice in his head, telling him how important ‘consent’ is, when Brock had made a grab for Bucky’s tail. Really, they’re all very lucky that Bucky hadn’t ripped the other cat’s fucking throat out. He could have, even before he had woken up with weapons embedded in his fingertips.

Bucky shuts himself inside his room with a protein shake, curls up on the bed with his phone, and waits for the stupid press call, loneliness lodged in his gut like a knife.

* * *

“Your cat seems to be asking some interesting questions,” Natasha says, breathing into Steve’s ear from behind.

“Oh!” He coughs, and leaps out of his seat in shock. No one really pays any attention as Natasha plonks down on the chair next to his and kicks her booted feet up onto another. Steve stares for a moment, watches her grin as she steals one of the french fries off his falafel platter, then slams his fist on the tabletop. “Where the hell have you been? There’s so much I’ve been needing to tell you—”

“Calm down, Rogers,” Natasha warns him, without breaking her composure for an instant. “That’s a nice, flashy uniform you got there. People tend to notice it around here.”

Steve glances around, sees that people in the mall’s food court are indeed starting to look up from their phones and their meals as he looms over his tiny, innocently snacking companion. “Sorry,” he says, after a measuring breath. “I didn’t go to international spy school to learn how to change costumes in a phone booth like some people.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, steals another fry when Steve sits back down. “That’s Superman.”

“Jesus, who cares? Are you going to tell me about my vintage package? Where did it come from? Did you have someone break into my room in New York?”

“You’re mixing your metaphors is all,” she says, not answering a single one of his questions as she helps herself to his fork and takes an entire falafel off his plate. “I feel like you should know better than to compare a spy to a superhero.”

Steve groans. Normally, this kind of banter is why Natasha can be fun to spend time with. He gets it. Steve had ignored what Natasha had told him and now she’s making him pay for it. Still, he feels cornered and lost, and instead of answers all the spy has are jokes. He forgets that he has to play these games by Natasha’s rules or she takes her toys and goes home. “What did you say about Bucky asking too many questions?”

“Not too many,” she corrects him between bites. “Just interesting ones. Did you get a chance to actually talk to him after your visit to the Secret Service before you went back to the office?” Her green eyes go up to Steve’s face, waiting for him to ask her how she knew that. Steve sits back in his chair, uncomfortable and frowning, refusing to give her the satisfaction. Natasha quickly realizes this and takes it upon herself to explain it anyway. “I had a talk with Jasper Sitwell. Apparently, Brock went to him immediately after you left and told him that Bucky thought you might have been flipped by Arnim Zola.”

Okay. That he didn’t expect.

“Bucky thought I was—” Because of how he defended the President, Steve realizes right as a jolt of pain zings across the scar on his thigh. When Bucky tried to tell him the president smelled like Zola, Steve had angrily shut him down, insisted that he drop the issue. Steve isn’t even sure why that suggested had frustrated him so much. Maybe because his whole job revolves around working to make President Piece look good, and even the slightest suggestion that he could be anything other than a typically flawed human being is…

Steve swallows. His entire leg has started to ache from a long forgotten pain and it’s too much.

Bucky is afraid that Steve somehow wound up like Ward, covering for whatever Zola had been. That’s why he had wanted to talk to Brock alone. Bucky didn’t trust himself to objectively figure it out on his own and Brock is the only other one that got out of that hole alive and unchanged.

...And Steve had given Bucky every reason to stop trusting him. “Oh. Fucking _shit.”_

“Hmm,” Natasha said, and went after a second falafel. Steve pushes the take-out container across the table towards her, because he’s pretty sure he’ll just puke if he tries to eat anything. She pulls it all the way in front of her own seat, like the meal had been hers to begin with. “Did you read through the vintage package?”

“I did.”

“Did you show Bucky?”

“I didn’t.” Steve knows this is important, but he’s distracted now. He already aches to pull out of his phone and text Bucky. He doesn’t even know what he’d say, he just wants to check on him, to get a text from him. Ask him what he had for lunch. He had checked Here Kitty on the way over, and saw Bucky had just been hanging out in the courtyard for the past hour. He hopes Bucky had brought a coat with him. It gets so cold in the courtyard, sun blocked by the high walls of the complex all year round. Suddenly Steve realizes Natasha had moved on and had asked him another question that he hadn’t even heard. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Project Insight? Sitwell told me about that too.”

Steve shakes his head, his face scrunching skeptically. “That man wouldn’t tell me a damn thing. A bureaucrat through and through. You expect me to believe he just told you all of this?”

Natasha makes a face like she couldn’t even believe Steve was asking this question. “I have my ways. Turns out you were right, anyway. Project Insight is a double-black classified initiative to identify any and all humanoid felines that may be sympathetic to the Wakanda movement.”

“Which, according to the package, has been around since 1945,” he says. “And no one’s ever heard of it until now.”  He knows he sounds skeptical but he doesn’t have any reason to doubt what he had found in that folder. He just doesn’t want to believe it, or believe what it means if it’s true.

“Not even the office that wrote it,” Natasha says.

“The SSR?” Steve leans back and shrugs. “I looked them up and they don’t exist. A phantom organization.”

“Oh, they exist,” Natasha says, glaring down at the food, and her tone takes on a sardonic edge. “Only you know them as SHIELD.”

Of course. The goddamn United States Intelligence Community has been insestuous since the first goddamn World War. Steve hasn’t forgotten that Captain Ward wound up somewhere within their organization, though now he’s starting to wonder about Natasha’s alliance with them. So far she’s never actually admitted to working for them, despite Steve’s best guess. And they don’t know about the blue folder? “So is SHIELD ready to tell me what the hell they want with my cat?”

“The DOD’s cat, Captain.” Natasha doesn’t even look up from her food, as if what she says isn’t really all that important. “Don’t forget Bucky’s license is held by the Joint Chiefs, not you. Once the Winter Soldier campaign is over and the program is fully launched, that will be transferred to SHIELD and it won’t be any of your business to know what SHIELD wants with Bucky.”

Steve just stares at her for a good few seconds as that sinks in. “It fucking _what!”_

Natasha looks up sharply. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” she says with the slightest crinkle of a warning in her brow. “You knew this was the deal when you let SHIELD use the Winter Soldier program as a seed for assets. Didn’t you read the revised program brief the Chief of Staff sent over?” Steve hadn’t. He had taken Fury and Coulson’s word on the matter and let them fast track it through. He had been so focused on getting Bucky out of the Red Room that he hadn’t taken any time to go through the fine print.

“I thought the J-5 would loan him to them for one single mission. I had no idea it would be—” Steve stops himself from even saying the words. This is bad. This is a _disaster._ How could he possibly tell Bucky that he was going to be sent off to live with SHIELD after this. License passed around like free weights at the Pentagon gym.

Would Steve even still be allowed to see him? To touch his ears and listen to his purr, to feel the warmth of his curled up form next to him in bed? Would he still even be allowed to _speak_ with him?

“Tell me about the package,” he says, regaining a shred of perspective as he struggles to push Bucky’s fate out of his mind.

“SHIELD has been tracking the Wakanda movement off and on over the last seventy-five years, and suspect it’s been around _much_ longer. Maybe even since the great die off. A group of cats trying to reclaim the glory of their long lost motherland, lead by Black Panther. The name is some kind of mantle, passed down from generation to generation— or maybe just a title claimed by the strongest among them, though we don’t think that’s how the current Black Panther came to power.”

It’s no good. Steve can’t concentrate on what Natasha is telling him. He’s going to be sick. He’s had enough. He needs to get home, needs to actually talk to Bucky about all of this. “I need to tell Bucky,” he says, past the lump in his throat.

“You know better than that, Rogers.” Natasha’s warning isn’t exactly gentle, but it’s not cruel either. “Bucky is not read in on this intel.”

Steve laughs, his panic immediately breaking apart in a splash of giddiness. Of _course_ not. There’s a secret organization of humans, hunting a secret organization of cats, and Bucky is supposed to secretly be recruited by one into the other, and yet he can’t possibly just be _told_ that, because what fun would that be? Every time Steve thinks he knows all the reasons he hates spies, he winds up adding something new to the list. “Is that all?”

Natasha finally puts the fork down. “Arnim Zola,” she says, and pushes the plate of food away, leaving it for him to clean up as she stands. “Died in custody three years ago this week.”

He sits in silence for a long time after Natasha leaves. Three years ago. _November seventh._ Steve isn’t sure why the math clicks so suddenly in his mind. Alexander Pierce’s re-election to President of the United States, campaigning on a platform of withdrawing America’s military occupation of Russia.

Zola dies. Piece is elected. America pulls out of Russia. Hundreds of cats trained to kill humans wind up on the streets. The Wakanda movement.

The Winter Soldier program on one side of that conflict, Project Insight lurking in the shadows on the other, with SHIELD somewhere in the middle.

Yet another series of impossible coincidences, and now Steve can't help but see a pattern.

* * *

Just as he had expected, the editor for National Defense magazine hounded Captain Rogers for information on future strategy to replace SCFs in the field.

 _No,_ Stark Industries is not creating cat androids.

 _No,_ the Winter Soldier program is not a recruitment tool for other branches of military service.

 _No,_ Bucky cannot comment on how much he thinks the government could save if the military started its own breeding program.

Bucky answers only one question, on how well he thinks the incoming Winter Soldier candidates might get along with each other once they are relocated to the barracks at Fort McNair. “Like soldiers,” Bucky had said, without thinking. “Almost all of us are raised from birth to be soldiers. Keep us on an Army base, that’s all we’ll ever be.”

After the call he expects Rogers to stay on the line but the captain hangs up along with the dissatisfied editor. Bucky has a sinking suspicion he’s done the wrong thing again. So far the Winter Soldier program has been all about helping cats transition into civilian lives, so maybe his answer fucked up what the captain referred to as the President’s “communication strategy.”

Bucky groans, drops to the floor next to his bed, opposite the door so that he could curl up in the narrowest, darkest corner of his room.

* * *

“Bucky?” Steve frowns, looks down on his phone one more time. Here Kitty is still telling him that the cat is in his bedroom but so far he hasn’t answered Steve’s few inquiring knocks. It’s weird that the cat would be in there anyway, since Bucky rarely spends any time in his own room. “Buck, are you home?”

When there’s still no answer he tilts his phone, just in case the map app is malfunctioning. Sometimes it flips out when Bucky is directly above him, like on the roof, or below him, in the gym. Steve raps his knuckle against the bedroom door one more time before he opens it to check. “Bucky?” Steve peeks inside and finds the nicely made bed, empty, and the curtains drawn.

Bucky must be upstairs, he thinks. He’ll have to grab a coat and go find him.

Just as Steve starts to turn away, his eye catches something on Bucky’s desk. It feels a little bit invasive, to step back into Bucky’s private space now that he knows the cat isn’t there, but hopefully Bucky won’t mind. The desk isn’t that old, stainless steel and a bit too high for Steve to sit comfortably with his laptop. He remembers he had replaced it with the corner desk in his own bedroom, just because that had fit the space better. Now it’s Bucky’s desk, and the shiny surface suits him well, Steve thinks.

He pushes the key fob for his own building aside and there he finds a rumpled, dog-eared insert for a Neko Yuki-chan CD. Steve doesn’t pick it up, just looks at the heavily photoshopped image of Bucky’s twin sister, buried under ribbons and ruffles. He wonders what Bucky thinks about this image people have of her, looking so much like a perfect doll, then smiles when he remembers that Bucky had punched Tony in the mouth just for talking disrespectfully of her. It’s strange to think that “Becca Barnes” doesn’t really exist anymore, the kitten she had been before her license had been sold to a record label, and she legally became “Neko Yuki-chan” in Japan. Not so unlike “Bucky Barnes” being trained in the military, and winding up nothing more than _SCF-h 32557038 F-5._

Steve’s eyes then move on to the other things on Bucky’s desk. A thin, worn out wallet. A battered folding combat knife—he has no idea where Bucky got such a thing. The expensive watch that Bucky couldn't wear, back in its satin lined box. A few carefully folded receipts. Bucky’s phone charger.

Steve turns and glances at the open closet, sees it half full of Steve’s old uniforms, the other half full of Bucky’s things. His fancy new suits. Jackets, jeans, and shirts all hanging up neatly on their store hangers, since Steve hadn’t left many for the cat to use. Several pairs of shoes are lined up on the floor beneath them. The rest of the room was similarly half Steve and half Bucky, but everything feels full of Bucky’s presence. The cat had moved a few lamps, got rid of the extra pillows on his bed. An aluminum water bottle with the Stark Industries logo sits on the nightstand next to a little leather bound journal that Steve doesn’t recognize. He’s pretty sure the cat stashed his old weights in the back of the closet.

This room had just been full of Steve’s discarded junk before, but in the few short weeks he had lived there, Bucky had made it his own. Just like the rest of Steve’s life. Steve really has no idea what he’d do without him at this point.

“Oh, Bucky,” he breathes out, and sits on the edge of the bed. The threat of Bucky being taken from him, either by Brock or SHIELD or Black Panther, looms over him, a far worse fear gripping his heart than the idea that monsters might have taken over the highest office in the land.

“Yes, sir?” Bucky says, and Steve leaps off the edge of the bed, stomach rocketing into his heart as he stumbles into the desk before he can catch himself. Bucky had been curled up on the floor the entire time, half under the nightstand on the opposite side of the room from the door.

“Fucking hell!” Steve shouts, trying to unclench his death grip on the desk. “I didn’t know you were in here!”

Bucky remains on all floors, staying close to the floor as he backs up into the nightstand. His eyes are huge and round, ears held close to the side of his head, and the nightstand threatens to topple as he forces his way back from Steve. “Buck?” Steve’s voice goes quiet when he recognizes the same panic in Bucky’s face that the cat had his first night home from the kennel, locked in Steve’s bathroom and shivering in fear. “You… you okay buddy?”

“S-sorry, sir. I’m not— I don’t know—” Bucky’s eyes dart around the cramped space between the edge of the bed and the back wall of the room, as if he’s desperately trying to search for an answer to Steve’s question.

“Hey, hey,” Steve coos, speaking softly as possible as he lowers himself to his knees. Every movement he makes is slow, deliberate, making sure that Bucky isn’t surprised by anything Steve does as he inches toward him. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to explain anything.”

Bucky tucks his chin in, hiding his face behind the fluffy tip of his tail so that all Steve can see is the back of his head and his tightly folded ears. Steve reaches out to pet them, but stops when Bucky’s shoulders bunch in anticipation of the touch. Okay, Steve thinks. No touching then. “This is your room. You can stay there as long as you want.” Steve tries to reassure him, but has to swallow when he realizes that’s a lie. Eventually, someone will come for him. He’s glad Bucky isn’t watching him at the moment, or else the cat would read the emptiness of his promise in an instant.

Steve gets up and hurries to the kitchen, where he pours a glass of water and fills it with ice before coming back to Bucky’s room. He sinks down to his knees again slowly, making as much noise as possible so Bucky can hear his every move. Then he taps the glass with his nails. “Think you could drink this for me? If you can’t, then that’s okay too.”

Bucky looks up slowly, huge eyes flicking between Steve and the water glass like he’s just been given a puzzle to decipher and for a long time doesn’t move. Does he think Steve is trying to trick him? Surely they’ve come farther than that by now.

Steve holds back a relieved breath when Bucky uncurls, tail pulling away when he lifts his shoulders off the floor. Steve hears a tiny pop as the cat flexes his spine, then his hands appear from beneath him and he accepts the glass of water. “Thank you, sir.” He sits up to drink it, leaning heavily back against the side of his bed, and his tail curls protectively back around his feet.

“Any time, pal.” Steve says. “Had me worried there for a bit.”

“Worried I got myself in trouble?” Bucky sounds bitter as he stares at the ice in his cup. In that moment one decides to pop from the change in temperature, after having been thrown into warm tap water before it had time to adjust, and melt away easily like the others.

“No, Buck. Just thought you might not—” Steve cuts himself off when he sees the red mark on Bucky’s neck. Teeth marks. _Brock’s_ teeth marks. “Might not want to see me,” he says, before Bucky picks up on his stumble. “After what a jerk I was earlier.”

Bucky’s eyes flick up at that but not all the way to Steve’s face. “Oh. I was wrong though wasn’t I? In the interview?”

“The interview?” Steve winces. He hadn’t even given the interview a second thought. Was that what Bucky is panicking over? “No, no, Buck. You were— well,” he laughs. “You were _completely_ off message, but you were just being honest. I might be committed to the dancing monkey routine, but you don’t gotta join the act.”

Bucky nods and takes another tentative sip of his water, but Steve doesn’t think he believes him. That’s okay, Steve figures. Bucky doesn’t have to take everything he preaches as gospel. There’s something relaxing about watching the cat drink, and Steve leans on his side to take some of the pressure of his knees. He can see Bucky’s prominent top fangs through the clear glass, and Steve thinks about how much he loves seeing that particularly cattish part of him. Hidden little knives, just like Bucky’s mystery combat knife. “Oh,” Steve says suddenly. “I’m sorry I came in here without permission. I thought Here Kitty was bugging. Figured you’d be on the roof or something when you didn’t answer.”

Bucky looks up from his glass and Steve is sorry to have interrupted him. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me,” he says. “After Brock and everything...”

Right. That. Bucky catches Steve’s eyes when they flick down to the mark on his neck, and he covers the spot with his metal hand. Steve’s immediate reaction is to reassure him, but somehow his guilt and his jealousy haven’t worked themselves out yet. He can’t tell Bucky that it’s okay when it most definitely is now, but he doesn’t know how to say that without making it sound like he’s blaming Bucky for what happened. “I’m just— ” Jealous? Painfully, stupidly, selfishly jealous?  Steve gives up for the moment. “Heh, words are hard.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh, and gives Steve the cutest lopsided smile, showing him just one fang while only his left ear turns to face him and the other does a little flick. Bucky’s tail gives him the slightest wave hello. “Yes, sir.”

“ _Steve,_ Buck,” Steve reminds him, and pokes Bucky’s sockfeet with the tip of his finger now that his tail isn’t covering them. “And I think it’s hard for me to tell you how I feel about what happened with— at the Secret Service office because it’s not very... Well, I’m not supposed to get jealous.”

“Jealous.” Bucky’s face scrunches up. “Did _you_ want to be the one to punch Brock?”

Steve is so startled by his own laughter that he has to plant his hands behind himself when he rocks back. “Well, sure!” He says, trying to catch his breath. “I’d never _not_ want to punch Brock. I meant…” Laughing helps, but what he’s trying to say is still difficult. “I meant before you hit him. I saw you in the window to the door. I didn’t know what the fuck to do. Sitwell was right behind me and—” Rambling. He’s rambling. Steve finally takes a breath. “Brock is a piece of shit, Buck. I know you know that too, and I thought I understood why you and him— on Sakhalin. But I don’t understand why you let him— _Ugh.”_

“You thought we were mating again?” Bucky asks, helping Steve out. He doesn’t say anything else for a long time. Bucky generally moves a lot when he’s idle, ears constantly scanning the world around him, tail adjusting and readjusting with his minor movements. Now he sits perfectly still, staring at Steve, waiting for his answer.

Steve nods.

Bucky’s shoulders go up as he takes in a measured breath, and he exhales slowly, letting his shoulders drop. Then he does it again. It’s a careful movement, something he clearly trained to do. Maybe Dr. Simmons showed him how. Finally, Bucky stands up, puts the glass on his night stand. Steve rises with him. “Do you remember what I told you about Tony and Pepper?”

“You mean, what you didn’t tell me,” Steve says, exaggerating his pout.

Bucky raises one eyebrow at him for that, then smiles. “Right. I mean, what I said about how it’s obvious to other cats when that sort of thing happens. Something changes in our personal scent, combines with the human’s.”

“Like a mate?”

Bucky winces at that. “Um. Maybe? But humans can’t be mates to cats, not really. You don’t—” Bucky shivers then, folds his arms together when the plates on the metal one click shut. He rubs it, like someone with a flesh arm might try to rub goosebumps away. “You don’t smell right for that. When a human takes a cat like that it shows. Cats aren’t really treated the same by other cats after that. Less dominant…” Bucky trails off to let Steve digest what he’s trying to tell him, and Steve thinks he’s following until Bucky makes a frustrated huffing noise. “I smell like you, now.”

Oh. Steve blinks, not sure how to parse that information. “I. Okay. So that makes sense. We live together, right?”

“Um,” Bucky’s tail does that little s-curl it always makes when he’s avoiding saying too much to Steve. “It’s different. It’s like we're having sex. Other cats can smell it. _All_ of them can smell it. The guards at the Secret Service office challenged me immediately.”

Oh. Steve wishes there was a chair in here he could sit on. Why isn’t there a chair in here? Bucky might want a chair. He shakes his head, trying to stop himself from these meaningless thoughts. Bucky is trying to tell him that other cats think he’s weak, because Steve ‘takes’ him. In other words, living with Steve is making Bucky’s life with other cats a whole hell of a lot harder. “Oh, shit.”

“They won’t say anything,” Bucky reassures him, as if that’s what Steve might actually be worried about. “They wouldn’t. Not if it meant I’d get in trouble for it. But I’ve seen other hunters at the Pentagon. It might be their job to see things like this. Brock is very dominant cat. Very masculine. His scent is extremely strong. Overpowering. He offered to fix it. I shouldn’t have accepted but—”

“Fix it,” Steve repeats. “How?”

“I—” Bucky shrugs, like he doesn’t care but his face colors in a darker shade of pink. “I just let him lick my scruff.” His hand goes to cup the back of his own neck, and he scratches his fingers through the fringe of fur there, visible just under his hairline. “That’s all I gave him permission for. That’s not all he wanted, though. I should have known...”

“He tried to force you?”

“He tried to dominate me. Not with sex, just physically. It’s hard to explain to you,” Bucky drops his hands and looks away, embarrassed. “I guess I’m not doing such a good job with words either.”

Steve can hardly blame him. Explaining a complicated relationship that’s part of a complicated life is hard enough as it is. After considering how little Steve actually knows about cats and their own complicated lives, it’s a miracle the two of them have got this far.“You’re doing great actually,” Steve says, and thinks he is at least one step closer to understanding Bucky’s point of view. “Brock tried to take more than you gave your consent for.”

Bucky looks up suddenly. “Yes! That’s what you said was important, right? Consent? That’s when you walked into the room. That’s what you saw.” Bucky glances away. “You got so angry.”

“I didn’t know what I was seeing and I got jealous.” Steve shakes his head, disappointed in himself. “I’m an asshole. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, si— Steve. I should have thought more about how it might look to a human. I forget that you can’t see things the same way we do.”

“Aw, Buck.” Steve finally gives up to the reality of what his selfish feelings actually mean. “That’s not it. The thing is, even if it was something more than that, even if you had wanted Brock for your official mate or something, I had no business being jealous. Concerned or frustrated maybe, because he’s still an asshole, but not _jealous._ I have no right to—” Steve looks at his hands. “To you.”

“Well.” Bucky joins him on the bed with a weightless hop, walking on all fours so that he barely presses down on the mattress when he pokes his nose closer to Steve. “You have some right,” he says with a cheerful grin. “My keeper.”

That’s it. Fuck the chain of command. Fuck his security clearance. Steve is going to tell him. Bucky has to know where his life is going, has to know that Steve will not be a part of it. SHIELD, the SSR, the Wakanda movement, all of it. Bucky has a right to know, has a right to be able to at least have the opportunity to make some decisions for himself. Steve refuses to be part of this secret any longer.

“I’m in love with you,” he blurts out instead.

* * *

 

 **Brock is back in action!** This fabulous sketch (of this absolute jerk that I can't help but love) is by [DeanDraws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/post/159241784460/another-commission-for-the-wonderful-resinonao3)! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started a new job and boy is it tough -_-;; it's MUCH better for me though, so I'm really enjoying it. Still, that means these chapters are definitely going to start coming a bit later than what I've been used to. Likely closer to once a month rather than once a week. It's a bummer but sometimes life takes priority over our beloved hobbies! 
> 
> Also, I'm participating both in the Captain America Reverse Big Bang (writing 5k) and the Stucky Library Big Bang (writing 40k) so in the coming weeks the chapters will likely be delayed even more. Feel free to reach out on Tumblr if you get curious about when the next chapter will post though! Always happy to give updates!
> 
> Lastly, this fic has inspired more fic!! Check out Darling, Dinner Will Just Have To Wait by Lasgalendil!  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/10753749


	19. Not an Animal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

Bucky flinches back and sits down, like Steve had thrown something in his face.

Steve opens his mouth to say sorry, but apologizing for telling Bucky that he’s in love with him seems like apologizing for loving him in the first place, and that’s not something Steve’s willing to do. Bucky glances around, searching for an explanation elsewhere since Steve isn’t providing one, before his baffled gaze finally falls back on Steve.

“You don’t have to say—” Steve starts, right when Bucky says, “—So do I.”

“What?” They both say at once.

Apparently neither of them know what to do with this new information so they just sit there and stare at one another. Steve tries to gauge if Bucky’s about to panic, if there’s any sign that the cat might run. Instead he finds Bucky’s eyes are comfortable, oblong slits and even though his ears are standing up, they are relaxed. Only the tip of his tail gives an occasional twitch as he waits attentively. The cat isn’t anxious, just curious about where this is all going.

That’s got to be a good thing, right?

Suddenly Bucky hums thoughtfully and falls onto his back, sighing up at the ceiling. “I’ve never been in love before,” he says, as if he’s objectively trying to examine the sensation. “I didn't think that was something that happened to cats. Not really. Becoming bonded pairs or mates. Not what humans have, like you see in the movies.”  
  
Steve carefully lowers himself to his back beside Bucky so that he can watch the same ceiling. He’s not really sure what to say, stunned by the idea that cats consider themselves excluded from ideas of romantic love. Bucky has mentioned that cats don’t have friendships, and don’t have real families. He selfishly hopes that Bucky’s changed his mind about those two things, but doesn’t think it’s an appropriate time to ask.

When Bucky speaks again his voice is quiet, reverent of the new sensation. “I’m sure this is what I feel for you though. I’m _sure_ of it.”

“Shit.” Steve covers his face with his hand, eyes stinging with the threat of tears, because at that moment all he can think about are the consequences. “What are we going to do?”

“I have a few ideas—” Bucky immediately answers, but he’s cut off when someone bangs on the front door.

“Oh what the hell,” Steve huffs, and rolls off the bed. It’s only sixteen hundred and Genki Sushi is already here? He probably put the wrong delivery time in the app when he pre-ordered before heading home. He’d been more than a little distracted, after all. “Sushi,” Steve tells Bucky, booping him on the nose when the cat sits up with him. “Put a pin in that. They’re almost two hours early so we can just throw it in the fridge and we can figure this out.”

Bucky flops back over, apparently disinterested in getting up to answer the door with him. Lazy cat. What if it was a murderer?

Steve feels odd when he heads down the hall. Sort of floaty, like he’s high on pain medication, only with enough clarity of thought to already start planning for their next move. He’ll tell Bucky everything he knows about SHIELD and Wakanda and the status of his license and together they can come up with a strategy to work around it.

Maybe Steve could make a special request of Director Fury to have Bucky reassigned? Let the next Winter Soldier become SHIELD’s puppet with Black Panther. Steve could work with Private Lorraine to develop some messaging about Bucky ‘graduating’ the program.

Maybe Sam could get him a job at the VA as a guide for other cats coming through the program? He’d love a chance to earn his own money.

Does he even have a credit card? Of course not, Steve thinks. Steve would have been the one to get it for him and he hadn’t even thought of it before now.

Trying to solve the entire mess of their lives in the short walk between his bedroom and the front door is a huge undertaking, but now that he finally stopped dragging around all that denial about his feelings for Bucky they might actually have a shot.

Steve’s _in love,_ with someone who loves him back. They’ll find a way. That fantastical confidence he builds up like sweet, spun sugar shatters the moment he opens his front door. “Dad!”

“Captain Rogers,” General Joseph Rogers greets, plucks off his service cap and pushes his huge frame through the front door, forcing Steve back a step without waiting for an answer.

“Come on in,” Steve grumbles. His dad has always been like this, observing only the manners he feels like. Polite enough to take his hat off, but doesn’t give a shit about asking for permission before walking into someone else’s home. Must go over like gangbusters in Japan. It’s not just the man’s size that makes it seem like he always fills up whatever room he’s in. It’s something about the way he appears casually entitled to the space he takes up, the particular tilt to his jaw that makes him look so very proud of looking down on everyone. His uniform is pristine, like always. His shoulders are huge as they’ve ever been. The laptop tucked under his elbow looks like a postcard beneath his bulk.

“You’re a hard man to get ahold of these days, son,” he starts, his tone conversational as he steps through the kitchen into the living room. He drops his cap on the side table there, then picks through a few pieces of Steve’s mail left next to Steve’s house keys. “Your mother says she hasn’t talked to you in weeks.”

Months, but that’s none of the general’s business. “I’ve been busy with the President’s new program,” Steve dryly reminds him. “You might have heard of it?”

The general laughs meanly, tossing the mail back onto the table, apparently satisfied that there is nothing noteworthy in the stack of bills and car loan offers. “You want to tell me about your job at the Pentagon? The one I got for you?” Steve scowls as he watches his father make himself at home in Steve’s own living room, but says nothing. His father always likes to act like he knows everything about everything, like a spy. Unlike a spy, he rarely ever does. General Rogers lowers himself into Bucky’s chair, filling the entire space between the armrests with a comfortable sigh. “Come here, I have something to show you.”

“Dad, this isn’t really the best time—”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, looking up sharply from where he’s positioned the laptop on Steve’s coffee table. “I thought we were both in uniform.”

Steve actually looks down at himself, catching sight of his own uniform before he resists the urge to groan. With everything going on he didn’t have a chance to change. If this was any other Army father, even a three star general like his own, there’d be no way he’d care about enforcing decorum in his own son’s apartment, uniforms or no. But this is Steve’s dad, and technically they are both on duty. “Sorry, sir.”

“Now, I had this set up a few weeks back,” the general explains, opening an innocuous looking app on his desktop. It tries to go into Microsoft Cloud, and predictably throws out a network error. “Well, shit.”

Steve can see the problem immediately, could solve his father’s struggle in three clicks, but fuck it. Let the old man suffer. In the meantime he just hopes Bucky stays in his room, and doesn’t let  his natural curiosity get the better of him.

“Ah! Is this it? No, wait… ” The general winces, showing his yellow teeth while he opens, closes, and then opens the exact same file he started with. His blue eyes had gone dull maybe a decade ago, and his dyed blond hair is stiff with too much product in an attempt to make it look fuller. Steve hates how much he’s always looked like his father. Hates that one day he’ll look like the man who beat the shit out of him when he was a kid. Steve watches the older man struggle with the simple functions on his laptop, disgusted. “Here we go.” The file he had apparently been searching for finally launches in the proper application, and Steve leans back when he sees nothing but dark, blurry surveillance footage.

“What am I looking at?” Steve is halfway through rolling his eyes when the video feed focuses. His heart ices over in shock when he suddenly recognizes his own bedroom. “That’s...”

“I installed this security system when I found out you were bringing that mongrel home,” his father explains. “Remember when you lost your damn mind and tried to get Section Eighted out of the service?”

“I—” What the fuck. What the _fuck!_ His father is spying on him? For how long? “I wasn’t trying to get Section Eighted...” The argument sounds pathetic even in Steve’s own ears. Steve made a lot of mistakes back then, but being discharged for mental instability wasn't exactly a goal. All he wanted was his fucking cat.

The cameras must have gone in when Steve and Bucky had been in New York for the surgery. The bottle of Grey Goose vodka, left there on his kitchen counter, had just been a plant to keep him distracted. Steve had been so frustrated by his dad’s backhanded compliment that he didn't even take Bucky seriously when the cat had done his job, and warned him that his father had been in his bedroom. Hadn’t he learned by now to trust Bucky’s instincts? Or had he been so up his own ass about his daddy issues that he spitefully ignored the warning? He never could have guessed his father would have gone this far, though. _Never._

“Back then, when you first came to me, I thought you were finally figuring it out.” General Rogers continues to poke around in a small directory of .mov files, all with different timestamps in their file names as he explains. “Things get rough out there in the field. Your cat buddy doesn’t make it home. You ask your old man for help because you finally realize what it means to have this kind of position. Then you got those demerits. Lost your promotion. Almost lost your bars. So I went ahead and made sure he wouldn’t get found. Wasn’t good for your career to worry so much about one stupid cat.”

No. No. _No._

“Imagine my surprise when your Winter Soldier turned out to be the same SCF you asked me to help you find back then! Couldn’t even believe it when I saw that damn feral by the pool, in my own building.” The general leans in close to the screen, squinting because he refuses to wear reading glasses. He finally locates the file he wants from his little directory of home movies, so he clicks it open and settles back to watch. “Alright, go on.”

The video launches.

Steve in bed, fast asleep. A few seconds in and Bucky’s dark shape hops up on all fours, pokes his nose near Steve’s face then walks down close to Steve’s hip to coil up on top of the blankets. Steve watches his own hand drift down to pet Bucky’s ears, sees the cat push his head into Steve’s seeking fingers, then yawn before he curls back up again. Under different circumstances, Steve’s heart might have melted. Bucky looks so comfortable, naturally fitted beside him, like he’s right where he belongs.

“Very cozy here aren’t we.” The general’s tone so far has been reasonable. Unimpressed, but not heated or accusing. Just observing the situation.

It’s not so bad, Steve thinks. Not so bad at all. No one could get in trouble for that. Felines are licensed for the sole purpose of that kind of companionship. Maybe it’s slightly inappropriate because of his rank and station but not as bad as it could have been.

“Ah, you’re thinking, that’s not so bad,” the general presumes, and Steve claps a hand over his mouth to smother his own, frustrated cry. His father doesn’t seem to notice, or just doesn’t seem to care, so he clicks another file. “But if we open this one...”

The living room. Bucky lying in Steve’s lap. He can even hear the cat’s gentle purr over the laptop’s speakers. So the surveillance package includes audio? Perfect. That’s perfect.

 _I love you,_ Steve says in the video, hand gently caressing Bucky’s soft ear.

Steve closes his eyes. Shakes his head. There are no words. The most important confession Steve has ever made in his life, and it wound up being heard by the wrong person. His raw emotions, meant for no one but himself, turned into a weapon against him. Against Bucky, whose only fault was earning Steve’s respect long before General Rogers ever would.

“So, you see the problem, then?” The general closes his laptop gently, his point made. “Not only have you discussed classified information with your cat, but you seem to be… well, I hate to use the word pervert for my own son, but—”

“What do you want?” Steve interrupts, and his voice cracks. “You want something right? That’s why you came here with this?”

The general stays quiet, frowning at Steve and giving slight, little nods with his chin like he’s negotiating something. When he stands it’s slow, deliberate, and Steve feels his dry throat constrict with an almost forgotten fear as his father’s shadow falls over him. “I want you to get rid of the cat, Steven.”

“No.” Steve rockets to his feet, and hates more than ever how much bigger his father is than him. He’s the only man on the planet that makes Steve feels like that scrawny ten year old, no matter how big or how strong he’s become. His dad makes him feel weak. Helpless.

_Dominated._

The general claps one, meaty fist on Steve’s shoulder and the knot of his infantry cord digs into the muscle when his father squeezes. It might be a companionable embrace if it weren’t for all the years of abuse built up behind every glance and gesture. Instead, Steve just feels the strength in his body leave him all at once. “I’m telling you this as your father, and as your superior officer. Tell Fury to reassign this fucking cat to someone else. Get _rid_ of it.”

Steve clenches his teeth, refusing to wince when the general’s grip tightens. In that same moment, against all odds, he somehow manages to hear the utterly silent cat, leaving his bedroom at the end of the hall. “I won’t.”

The general’s expression is so cold that Steve hopes he’ll just storm off. He does that sometimes, when he knows he’s too drunk to actually win a fight. “You little shit!” His father explodes instead. He yanks Steve forward, nearly off his feet. “You think this is something noble? You think getting your ass shot off in some Russian shit hole gives you a free pass? I’ll be god _damned_ if the rest of the Pentagon finds out my son is a fucking feliphile.”

“It’s not like that!” Steve cries. “And if you spent even five seconds in the real battlefield instead of hiding behind your precious _desk_ you’d know exactly what I’m—”

It’s been years since his father hit him, so when the strike comes it’s a shock more than anything. One strong backhand, right across the face. Steve sees stars for a brief instant, then feels nothing but fire across the entire left side of his jaw. “Don’t you fucking dare,” the general spits. “What I do for this fucking country— you have no idea!”

Why is Steve just standing here, taking this? The general might be bigger but Steve is younger, faster, and _much_ better trained. He’s not that scared little kid anymore, he made sure of that at West Point when he trained longer and harder than anyone else to finally leave that scrawny body behind. There is absolutely no reason why his arms should be hanging uselessly at his sides as his father shakes him like a hound with a chew toy.

Yet all Steve does is cry out indignantly when General Rogers twists the epaulet from Steve’s uniform, blue cord and all. The cord has been Steve’s way of showing his loyalty to infantry; a small, bright reminder of where he came from when he wakes up in the morning and the dress uniform doesn't fit quite right.

Steve’s dad knows what it stands for, and when he throws it to the floor he looks positively triumphant. “You think _that_ gives you the power to disrespect me like this? You think that means anything at all? I could end your life right this instant. With a stroke of my pen you lose this fancy home and your fancy job.Your life will be nothing but shit, right where you left off! When the fuck are you going to learn?” The general jabs a hard finger into the shiny gold Joint Staff pin, still stuck in the front of Steve’s jacket pocket. The symbol of everything General Rogers gave him. “This is all there is! This is _real_ power, Steven. Politics. Desk jobs. The only fight that actually fucking matters!”

No. What Steve did on Sakhalin mattered. What the Howling Commandos accomplished mattered. What Bucky and the SCFs sacrificed fucking _mattered!_ His dad is so unbearably wrong, but Steve can’t drag those words out of his throat to tell him so. Steve is helpless, terrified, and small, just like always. There is just no way around that fact for Steve to stop the general on his own.

Though as it turns out, he’s not on his own, not anymore. When that finally occurs to him, some of that shattered confidence finds its way back to him, and his shoulders stiffen against his father’s onslaught. “You know sir, I don't think that’s true,” he argues, and blinks a few times to clear the stars from his eyes. Steve might not be able to fight back himself, but that doesn’t make him helpless. “What you said about power? I wouldn’t even need a pen to end your life.”

The general snorts, then catches sight of Steve’s hand, held in a fist just above his shoulder. “What?”

That’s when the general finally catches sight of Bucky.

Steve knows exactly where his hunter is. Crouched on all fours in the hallway, tail lashing slowly from side to side. The blue of his eyes reduced to nothing but a thin line of ice around his black pupils. Ears angled slightly back, streamlined with the rest of his body as he creeps silently forward. Teeth fully bared and the sharp claws of his left hand held carefully above the wooden floor so that he makes no noise as he stalks the enemy attacking his human.

The only thing holding Bucky back is Steve’s hand signal.

The general’s grip on Steve’s shoulder goes slack, and he takes one, slight step back. “Bucky doesn’t give a shit if you’re a three star general.” Steve smiles as he says this, can feel the blood coating his teeth, sweet and sticky. “Bucky doesn’t even give a shit if you’re my dad. I’ve seen him kill a man in under three seconds before with his bare hands. I didn’t even have to order him to do it. He saw a threat to me and removed it. That’s the kind of loyalty you get when you make _real_ sacrifices. On the front lines. Getting your ass shot off in some Russian shit hole.” Steve tugs on the bottom of his jacket, straightening it even though it’s ruined. “Do you want to test your pen against my hunter, dad?”

“You’re bluffing,” his father sneers, turning his scowl back to Steve. “Don’t point a gun at someone unless you’re willing to pull the trigger.”

“Well,” Steve reasons with a tired nod. “It’s been a long day.”

“I always knew you were a worthless little shit,” his father hisses, and with almost no effort at all shoves Steve back with enough force to send him sprawling. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the couch and he sits down so hard that he drops his fist.

Just like that, Bucky is airborne.

“Stand down!” Steve screams, and Bucky miraculously diverts mid air, body twisting like a rubber band to send him just wide of the general. He rebounds off the high back of his chair, then lands opposite the coffee table, skidding to a stop with his claws still raised. Bucky’s eyes are ablaze, his mouth open in a feral snarl, his tail lashing out behind him. He would have killed General Rogers if Steve hadn’t stopped him.

His dad makes a huffy, arrogant laugh. “You really fucked up this time, kid.” He takes one step towards Steve, then freezes when Bucky lets out a growl. The sound resembles something like a tectonic shift of the earth, echoing through a subterranean cavern; deep and terrifying. The cat’s tail flicks just once and the muscles in his shoulders bunch up, ready to spring again, eyes still locked on the general. Bucky is almost unrecognizable from the playful cat Steve had just been on the bed with minutes ago.

“Fucking animals,” the general mutters, sweeps up his laptop, and quickly heads out of the living room. He snatches his cap off the side table, drops it on his head. Without turning around he says, “Your career is over, Steven. Expect a call from Director Fury within an hour.”

Steve doesn’t know what signal he gives Bucky when he turns back around. All he can think about is how much he needs the cat now, more than ever before. He thinks about all the time he had spent wishing someone would help him back when he had been too small to possibly stand up to the general on his own.

The cat leaps clear over the couch in response to that silent plea and hurtles through the kitchen. General Rogers runs out of the apartment, slams the door behind him in terror. Bucky skids to a stop, half climbing the door itself to halt his forward momentum. He snarls at the knob, then nods, satisfied that the general is long gone and properly expelled from their territory. His entire posture immediately relaxes, his tail swishing with ease as he turns back around. “Are you okay?”

No. Steve is not okay.

Steve is one hundred percent fucked. And now Bucky is too.

* * *

Captain Rogers is _not_ okay.

The human reaches up to touch his own face, gently where the welt is already rising up on his broad jaw. He looks surprised by the pain he finds there. Bucky can’t really blame him. He’s seen the captain in action before, well-trained and lethal, able to defend himself with weapons or hand to hand against any equally matched opponent. Not many people could successfully strike the captain like that, but his father seems to be the exception. He practically shrank in the general’s presence, entirely dominated by him regardless of their near equal stature.

That’s okay. The captain doesn’t have to win every fight. That’s what Bucky is for.

“I’m fine,” Steve finally says, then scowls down at his fingertips where he finds smudges of blood from his mouth. “Find the bugs.”

“Yes, sir.”

Orders are easy to follow for Bucky, but more importantly they are easier for Steve to deal with than whatever is going on behind that scowl. Orders are something they have both grown up with, been trained to handle, so it’s easy behavior to default to. Bucky quickly leaps down the hall on all fours, eager to show Steve that some things still work the same as always.

Back on mainland Russia, Bucky had run a number of infiltration missions where he had to sneak into RNS strongholds and plant surveillance equipment. Training for it had been quick— it’s easy for cats to crawl into tight spaces and pinpoint ideal locations for sound reception. Now that he knows the apartment is bugged, the equipment is easy to find. The little buzzing sound of the transmitters are easy to pick up, though not so unlike all the other utilities in the building that it had stood out among the rest of the noise to begin with.

Bucky finds microphones in the recessed lighting in every room, even the hallway. He pulls cameras out of the vent beneath the living room’s bay window, the pendant light above the breakfast bar, and even in the drilled out lock on the crawlspace panel in the captain’s bedroom. That one was very clever. General Rogers apparently put a lot of thought behind it.

Bucky carries all the bugs into the kitchen in his mouth as he keeps to all fours, then spits them out on the counter, their thin wires connected to tiny battery packs like little tails. Steve doesn’t look up, his scowl from early now directed down to his laptop. There’s a crumpled napkin on the counter, bloody from dabbing at his mouth. “Is that all of them?”

“Yes sir,” Bucky says, confident.

Steve’s screen suddenly goes black, and white text scrolls quickly across it. “I just activated a full security burn,” he says, and shoves the device aside. He pokes at the snarl of electronics, picks a few of the short cords apart, but he looks distant, like he’s trying to untangle something other than what’s in front of him. “Thank you.”

The captain sweeps the little pile into the sink, jams the tiny components into the drain with a wooden spoon, then flicks the garbage disposal switch. Bucky claps his hands over his ears from the noise it makes, especially once Steve turns on the tap and water crashes into the pulverized cameras and snapped microphones. After he’s satisfied that he’s sent the bugs to hell, he looks around for something else to destroy. “What else…”

Bucky pulls out his phone, pushes it across the counter. It’s the last thing that makes any sense. “Phone?”

Steve looks down at Bucky’s iPhone and his face twists suddenly, painfully, like someone just dug a knife into his side. “This isn’t fair…”

Bucky watches the big human crumple, right before his eyes. Steve’s  knees go out first, and his palms make a hard slap against the counter when he barely catches himself.

Bucky easily springs over the breakfast bar, and then slides behind Steve before he could collapse any further. Bucky wraps his arms around the captain’s big shoulders and presses his face into the back of his neck. “It’s okay,” Bucky tells him, speaking softly, like Steve does when Bucky is scared or overwhelmed. “You’re okay. I’ll protect you. It’s my job. My only job.”

Steve says something but not in words, a strangled, furious sound coming out of him instead. His hands curl into fists against the kitchen counter.

“I’ve got you,” Bucky insists, then licks the tip of the captain’s ear to make sure he’s listening. “You know that right?” Bucky isn’t sure what else to say if the human doesn’t agree. “Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve wheezes out. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He straightens part way up before he gasps and a sob tears free of his throat. “Fuck...”

Bucky gathers the human against his chest. “No you’re not,” he says, and Steve doesn’t push back, allowing himself to be cradled. Bucky has never dared to hold the human like this before. His commanding officer. His keeper. The plates of Bucky’s metal arm shutter closed when he flexes, holding him tight. “Your heart rate is elevated. Your pupils are dilated. You’re sweating; I can smell the fear in it. You’re not fine and you’re going anywhere, and that’s okay.”

The captain gulps in a huge breath. Another. Another. Amazingly, the human starts to relax. His broad shoulders slump into Bucky’s arms, he loses the rigid pole keeping his back straight. They wind up sinking to the floor and Steve practically sits in Bucky’s lap, lets the cat engulf him entirely and buries his face into Bucky’s chest. “It’s okay,” Bucky whispers again, and then he feels Steve start to tremble.

The captain is _crying._ Bucky lets him hide his face, and holds him through the deep, gasping sobs of a man falling apart.

“I’ve got you,” Bucky whispers again and again, then finally, “I love you.”

“I don’t deserve it!” Steve coughs out, angry even through his tears, like he wants to bully himself. “I haven’t treated you — _any_ of you — better than my fucking dad!”

“Shh,” Bucky breathes into Steve’s neck. He moves his hand across the human’s broad chest, rests it against the JCS pin. “Your father was wrong about this. It doesn’t define you. None of this defines you. I heard what he said, I know you feel guilty about it. But it’s not your fault. You’re a good person, Steve. The best human. Ever.”

Steve grabs hold of Bucky’s arm, clutches it there against his chest, frustrated by the affection but terrified of him letting go at the same time, and laughs. It’s messy, interrupted by small sobs, aftershocks of his breakdown. “You don’t understand, Buck. My dad was right. Black Panther was right. Fuck, even _Tony_ was right. I sold you out.”

That makes something along the top ridge of Bucky’s tail itch. “You saved my life.” Bucky is surprised he has to remind the captain of that little fact. He doesn’t really remember those last days in the Red Room, he had been too drugged and too confused to tell up from down, but he knows the captain had given him a choice. Had taken him _home._ “You made my life worth saving.”

“Your life was _always_ worth saving.” Steve’s voice is shaking and bitter, taking on an ugly tone as he stares hard at the floor between his feet. “But the only _real_ reason you’re alive is because I agreed to allow a spy agency called SHIELD use you as an asset against Black Panther. They’re going to come for you after the Winter Soldier campaign is over and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.”

Oh.

Bucky must not have understood him right. Captain Rogers took him out of the CFC and gave him his collar. He lives in Steve’s _house._ If there’s one thing that Bucky understands about life as a civilian cat, it’s that being kept is the law of the land. The CFC has more power than to allow the government to just take licensed cats away; it would destabilize the whole cat licensing economy. “They can’t take me from you, though. You’re…. You’re my keeper.”

“Except I’m not.” Steve’s voice finds its edge. He’s angry about this, so angry that Bucky immediately realizes the truth of it. His grip across Steve’s chest finally loosens, because he can’t feel his hands anymore, and the captain slowly gets to his feet. “I never was,” he explains, leaving Bucky on his knees, looking up at him from the kitchen floor. The captain’s disgust is obvious as he explains. “Technically, you’re registered to me with Director Fury’s permission, like a piece of equipment. The DoD holds your license. They can take you whenever they want.”

Okay.

Bucky still doesn’t understand. The captain had been looking for him for five years, had chosen him especially, had to fight to get him out. How could Director Fury be the one to technically keep his license? Or the Department of Defense? They wouldn’t have even known who he was if it hadn’t been for Steve. “But why?”

“I used your freedom like a bargaining chip because I wanted you out of the CFC. At that moment I didn’t give a shit about the Winter Soldier program or helping other SCFs. I didn’t even bother looking at any of the other cats in the Red Room cages. I wanted you. For myself. I don’t deserve your— ”

Bucky looks sharply at the front door and Steve stops when he also picks up the sound of someone just arriving.

“Much lighter footsteps than your father’s,” Bucky quietly reassures him, because he can feel the fresh tension radiating from the human just from the way he stands behind him. He pads lightly to the front door on all fours. “Probably just sushi?” Bucky suggests, then catches his breath when he looks back and sees Steve’s face. The bruise on his jaw looks terrible. His eyes are red, miserably drawn down at the sides. His nose is raw and wet and his uniform is ruined. “I’ll get it,” Bucky says gently, and to his surprise the captain doesn’t argue. He clearly wants to, even opens his mouth with an objection on the tip of his tongue, but he just sighs and turns to the breakfast bar, like he ran out of energy to fight.

Bucky takes the sushi from the surprised delivery girl, gives her a cash tip like Steve would have wanted from his own wallet, and brings the takeout into the living room. “Let’s just out of the bags for once,” he says, trying to resurrect a little cheerfulness. “Like animals. You can tell me more about whatever the hell SHIELD is.”

Bucky sits in his own chair, watching the human carefully as they pass the plastic containers back and forth and eat with the disposable wooden chopsticks that they usually throw away. The captain doesn’t say a whole lot, and doesn’t look like he’s even thinking of much.

Bucky wishes he would. He has a lot of questions.

Finally, Steve puts his bowl of pork katsudon down and leans forward onto his knees. “I just want to let you know,” he starts, meditating into his clasped hands. “If what I tell you changes how you feel about me, I’ll understand.”

Steve tells him about SHIELD. About Director Coulson and his plans to embed him with Black Panther. About the blue folder. He shows it to him, an entire bulging collection of dusty old photographs and documents about the Wakanda Movement. Bucky had never heard of it until Tony Stark mentioned it, and yet it’s been around since 1945.

They compare notes about Project Insight.

Bucky tells Steve how the President’s scent is identical to Zola’s, explains that two people can’t possibly share the same markers like that, let alone create that same unnatural sense of fear that he experienced on Sakhalin. He also admits Brock had insisted that the president is not actually the same thing at all, and how that confuses the fuck out of him.

Bucky tells Steve he had met his father before. When he had gone for one of his first patrols of the building and wound up on the roof, he never would have thought the human he encountered at the pool would have been related to Steve. The chlorine made it impossible to identify his scent, so he hadn’t connected that with the man that had been inside their apartment until he saw him there, in the living room.

The only thing he holds back is admitting that Tony and Pepper are lovers, because that isn’t his secret to tell. Similarly, the only thing Steve keeps back was the name of the person who's been giving him this information on the side. “She’s a friend,” is all Steve says about her, then shakes his head and laughs. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Like Sam?” Bucky asks quietly, once a period of silence had stretched out long enough to let him know that was it.

“Yeah like— well, I mean, not exactly like Sam.” Steve’s eyes flick away quickly, like they always do when he gets embarrassed. “I’ve never— I mean, she’s just.”

“You were never mates,” Bucky figures. “Like you had been with Major Wilson.”

Steve’s eyes go wide as he watches Bucky, like he has no idea what to say to that. Eventually he just releases a huge sigh and leans his chin in his hands. He flinches from that, having forgotten about his swollen jaw, and settles his weight on his elbows instead, letting his shoulders slump. “Right.”

The silence returns, but it’s easier now. There’s no more secrets between them. Nothing left unspoken. Bucky mirrors the captain’s slump, putting his chin on the armrest of his chair. “Do you believe me now?”

“About the President?” Steve asks and sucks in a breath, giving a thoughtful look into his hands where they hang between his knees. “I don’t know what to think about that, after what Brock said.”

Makes sense, Bucky thinks. Maybe it’s time he lets it go.

“But so far your instincts have never been wrong,” Steve adds, surprising him. “I think we need to be careful about it. We can’t let our guard down when—” Steve’s phone goes off, buzzing against the glass of the coffee table next to an empty sushi tray. “Ah. Here we go,” he says. Bucky sees that caller ID and his heart sinks, even as the captain stands to answer it. “This is Captain Rogers.”

“Captain,” Director Fury’s words carry easily over the cellphone’s speaker; that human’s conversational volume is nearly at a shout to begin with. “I just had an interesting meeting with General Rogers.”

“Did you, sir?” Steve’s voice goes up innocently, like he’s actually surprised, but his eyes meet Bucky’s and there’s real fear hiding behind the act. He paces back and forth as his anxiety mounts.

“I want you to know that Director Coulson with SHIELD is the only reason why you aren’t facing a court martial right now.”

That clearly does surprise him, and he turns his shocked expression to Bucky. “I— yes, sir. Um, let me go to a more secure location.”

“No need,” Director Fury says. “We can discuss in the morning. I just wanted to let you know that there will be some changes.”

Steve visibly swallows, his relief snuffed out like a candle flame. “Changes, sir?”

“In the morning, captain. That’ll be all.”

“Thank you, sir.” Steve gives his phone a confused look before he tosses it away on the opposite end of the sofa. “Well. Looks like we got a stay of execution.”

“Could you have really been discharged?” Bucky isn’t sure why but Steve’s relief over the job he hates being safe for another day doesn’t translate to any relief of his own.

“If I was lucky. I could have been arrested, I guess. I wish I knew what the general told him. He certainly wouldn’t have admitted that his son was a.” Steve makes a face. “I don’t even know what I am. I don’t know what to call this.”

Bucky pouts quietly into the arm of his chair. “Does it have to have a name?” He isn’t really that naïve, but is tired of trying to figure it out himself.

“I fell in love with my cat,” Steve confesses, his voice breaking on the last word. “The only names for that aren’t good ones.”

 _Cat._ Bucky’s sick of hearing it; sick of it defining every aspect of his life. “I don’t understand why I have to be a cat,” he says slowly, picking at a loose thread on the upholstery. “While humans get to just be people.”

“That’s a big question,” Steve miserably admits. “But my dad hates you just because it impacts my bullshit career. If you had been anyone else. If you had just been _human,_ I could. Could just.”

Bucky looks up sharply. “Could what?”

Steve shakes his head, unwilling to finish that thought because he already knows perfectly well how it would sound. “Nevermind.”

Again, being a cat is supposed to define him, and the shame clearly written all over Steve’s face for suggesting he should be anything different adds insult to injury. Bucky isn’t just sick of hearing it, he’s sick of it constantly forcing him in directions he doesn’t want to go. Split up from Becca, into the Army, out to Sakhalin, onto the streets, into the Red Room, away from Steve.

Bucky climbs from his chair and hops up onto the sofa next to the startled captain. He pushes his face right into Steve’s, not allowing him to escape his gaze when he asks, “What could you do, if I were human?”

Steve puts his gaze down, and guilt puts a divot between his eyebrows. “Sorry. That’s not what I meant to say.”

Bucky can feel his pupils slide all the way open in order to take in all the beauty of the human’s face with as much light as possible. Captain Rogers is the rarest human he’s ever met, and it never occurred to him one could be responsible for so much heat building up in the bottom of his tummy. He’s not supposed to feel this way at all, not even supposed to feel this way about a cat other than identifying appropriate mates for the season.

Yet here they are.

Unthinking, driven by instinct and want, Bucky leans forward and tastes the very tip of the captain’s nose with a curious, tiny lick.

“Sorry,” he whispers when Steve startles back from him. “I’m sorry, sir,” he repeats, suddenly unsure of his whole daring adventure. He starts to move away, figures the moment is irreparably damaged, but Steve reaches out to him, puts a few cautious fingers on Bucky’s hip to keep him there. Bucky isn’t sure what Steve wants from him, so he remains still, staring into the human’s round blue eyes.

Steve pushes his face into Bucky’s, and his soft— _so soft!_ —tongue brushes a quick, wet stripe up the front of Bucky’s cheek. “Was that okay?” He gently asks, his forehead lightly pressed against Bucky’s own. “Is that how you do it?” Bucky’s mouth works but no sound comes out as he stares, frozen in shock. The captain laughs, nervous. “You’re turning so red.”

Suddenly it’s all so real. He’s wanted the captain for so long that he can barely sleep without the thought of the human beside him, but now that he’s touched him like this… They still haven’t done anything, not really. A ‘special hug,’ that other cats could just make fun of him for. Maybe a few lingering touches, like the captain’s hands, tightening on Bucky’s waist. All Bucky has to do is make a joke out of it. Pull back. Abort.

“Your tongue is so soft,” Bucky blurts out instead, because he’s an idiot and because he’s never felt braver in his life.

“Your tongue is so _rough.”_ Steve nearly growls out the word, and his face is already searching Bucky’s, looking for a way to ask for more.

The captain is taller than Bucky by a few inches, tall even by human standards, and Bucky has to look up into his eyes when he quietly asks, “So how would you touch me, if I were like you?”

Steve actually thinks about this question before he guiltily looks away. His face is so close, Bucky can feel his sigh on his cheek. “Bucky…”

Bucky walks forward on his hands, right into the captain’s lap, and breathes on the human’s neck. “This is how we’d do it,” he whispers into the tiny hairs just below his human ear. “If you were like me.” Bucky licks there, and Steve drops his head to the side, exposing more of his neck for Bucky to reach.

The captain tentatively gathers Bucky to him with the slightest touch to his back, and Bucky winds up straddling Steve’s hips, while his licks get longer, bolder. Bucky tastes the human’s sweat and soap, and even something a little more as Steve’s pores open up. He makes a pretty little sound of pleasure as Bucky lets the barbs of his tongue drag roughly against his soft skin. “Bucky,” he says in a soft cry, and his body shudders, hips barely suppressing the hint of a thrust. “Bucky…”

“Yes, sir?” Bucky whispers into the damp spot he’s made, just after pulling his tongue in.

Steve is panting, shaking, and his mouth makes a few shapes as he struggles with what to say, with what he wants. Finally, he whimpers one word. _“Harder.”_

Bucky sinks his fangs into the side of Steve’s neck, and the human’s restraint collapses. He gasps, his hips grind up between Bucky’s legs. Then Steve grabs Bucky by the rear, hoisting him up until Bucky releases his bite, and latches his own impossibly soft mouth on Bucky’s throat. Bucky feels the air leave him in a whoosh when Steve closes his hot, wet lips over the sensitive skin, and when Bucky lifts his chin a rumble of pleasure escapes his own chest. He swallows it down, not wanting his juvenile purring to ruin everything, but it comes back, harder, as the captain moves between Bucky’s knees and his soft, human hands find their way under Bucky’s shirt. Bucky bites his own lip, trying to hold it in, and shivers with effort denying the compulsion.

“No, don’t stop,” Steve breathes into his neck, kissing Bucky above the rigid leather strap of his collar, then below it, the metal of his license tag jingling as works around it. Bucky’s arms are looped over the captain’s shoulders, his right hand threaded into his soft, golden hair. “I like it. Feels nice. In my chest,” he insists, and his mouth finds a soft patch of scruff at the hinge of Bucky's jaw and opens his mouth over it.

“But,” Bucky whimpers and his own hips rise when he feels the hard line of the captain’s sex against the inside of his thigh. Heat spreads instantaneously through his whole body, and now he doesn’t hold back when his thighs squeeze around Rogers. “It’s so. So feline.”

The captain gasps, like he’s finally coming up for air, then slumps pushing his forehead into Bucky’s chest. “Fuck. Fuck! What am I doing?” Steve puts one hand of each of Bucky’s thighs, bracing himself as he pushes their bodies apart like he needs to escape. “God. Fuck! I’m. I’m so sorry.”

Bucky is breathless too, his eyes having a hard time deciding on what to focus on. The captain’s shiny, red mouth, the colorful swatches of the ribbons on his uniform, the tightness in the front of his pants. Bucky watches Steve, stuck there between his knees, before he’s able to feel the heat of his own anger overcome the overwhelming arousal. “There you go again,” Bucky growls, still catching his breath. “Apologizing for everything. I give you my consent. That’s the most important thing, right? To humans? I give it to you. For anything. For everything you want from me. Just don’t _stop.”_

“Bucky, this isn’t the same as—”

“Why not!” Bucky snaps, even though he knows why. Steve’s guilty expression is quickly swallowed up by surprise, so Bucky doesn’t allow the fact that he’s a cat stand in his way anymore. “I have asked you for nothing. _Nothing_ . Doesn’t it occur to you that I might want this too? Are you really sorry for this,” he says, covering the captain’s hands with his own, holding them against his thighs. He draws them up further, and the captain allows himself to be lead, first rounding the soft curve of Bucky’s hips and then closing in around his waist, where Bucky keeps them. “I mean, _really_ sorry?”

“I… I can’t take advantage of you,” Steve insists, his eyebrows draw down in a frown as he considers his own argument. “People that sleep with their cats are monsters. _Feliphiles._ You _can’t_ consent, not really.” Steve’s eyes drop to Bucky’s collar. “It’s not _right.”_

“So you want to deny me the one choice I want to make for myself?” Bucky clenches his teeth and brings his metal hand to his throat, hesitates for less than a heartbeat before he clutches the license between his thumb and forefinger. He wishes he could crush the tiny shield and be done with it. “No matter what this looks like,” he slowly explains. “I’m not an _animal.”_

The captain shakes his head. “Shit,” he says with a gulp, and looks up at the ceiling, blinking like he’s in pain. Bucky gives the slightest squeeze with his knees and luckily Steve takes that as a cue to hold Bucky even tighter, not to push him away. If Steve had pushed him away, Bucky doesn’t know if he’d ever have the courage to go back into his arms. Instead, Steve smiles in peaceful defeat. “We’re doomed, aren’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky answers immediately, but he knows his tail is practically dancing behind his back, giving him away. He feels Steve’s hands spasm when he licks the sharp ridge of the human’s adams apple. Bucky winds up cradling the back of Steve’s head against his shoulder to gain access to the back of his neck, then finds what passes for a scruff on a human with his mouth.  His purr goes deep and needy as he licks, then presses a few seeking bites into the human’s soft neck.

It’s worth it, Bucky thinks, as the heat builds between their bodies. To no longer allow words like _cat_ and _human_ to define what already exists between them, to risk everything in order to experience this deep, unsettling happiness.

Captain Steven Grant Rogers is worth _all_ of it.

* * *

 **Lick, lick, lick!** Double feature artwork for this chapter, because I love these pieces shown together! Bucky licking Steve by [Rizurin](http://rizurin.tumblr.com/post/160618877110/resinonao3-the-unbelievably-talented-and), and Steve surprising Bucky with a lick of his own by [d-june-y](http://d-june-y.tumblr.com/post/159111166738/commission)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update on posting schedule: I am still working on the finishing touches of my Captain America Reverse Big Bang fic, which I've scheduled to post on May 27th. Once that is finished I'll be switching gears to work on my Stucky Big Bang fic for the Stucky Library. That means I'll probably still only be posting chapters of this fic about once a month, until the end of summer. After that I can hopefully ramp back up again! 
> 
> As always, reach out any time on Tumblr to see where I'm at with any current chapter. I'm always happy to give updates! Thanks so much for your patience! 
> 
> ...speaking of patience, expect Steve and Bucky's to be just about up on this slow burn in the next chapter ;) And a pre-emptive NSFW warning on the next chapter's multiple pieces of fanart!


	20. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one a lot of people have been waiting for, I believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW WARNING** The illustration at the end of this fic is NSFW!!! 
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

Bucky’s skin tastes exactly how Steve fantasized. He can taste the salt and bitter sweat, but also the honey graham crackers and vanilla he expected; maybe something a little spicy, like chai, that he hadn’t. He inhales Bucky’s strong, masculine scent as he works his mouth over the cat’s exposed throat, kissing and suckling every inch of that vulnerable area. Bucky is hot to the touch, his pulse hammering against Steve’s lips when he ghosts over the vein.

“Mmnf,” Steve mumbles, when it strikes him that he has yet to taste Bucky’s lips and he’s suddenly impatient to try. Bucky’s been sitting in his lap for at least twenty minutes, his warmth spreading into Steve’s body from where their chests press together. He can feel the cat’s too fast heartbeat again, a little fluttering reminder of the species difference, and looks into his narrow, slitted pupils. How could he ever think things would be better if Bucky were human, just because it’d be easier? “I’m going to kiss you now. Is that okay?”

“Please,” Bucky softly begs between the deep purr that rumbles out of his chest. “Yes.”

Steve brings his hands up first, tracing the line of Bucky’s jaw with a gentle brush of his knuckles until his fingertips find the little hidden spot under Bucky's hair, where human ears would be. Bucky opens his eyes at the sensation, the touch in such a private area. His shoulders drop weakly when Steve curls his fingers in and out of the fur he finds there, and the plates on his metal arm translate his tiny shiver into a shift of metal plates. Bucky’s eyes had grown large and round, deep pools of desire looking right into Steve’s own. He’s openly showing his hunger, arousal and maybe a little hint of fear, but without hiding anything from Steve.

Steve uses his nails to comb through Bucky’s soft fur, deep into his hairline, and the cat interrupts his purr with a soft moan.

Steve had wanted that kiss, but now that he has Bucky’s face between his hands he can’t help but stare at him, just for a little while. He had never noticed Bucky’s eyelashes before, the delicate dark length of them, pressed against his pale cheeks when he closes his eyes. He wonders if Bucky even realizes how much he shows his trust, watching him with his slow, deliberate blink, and Steve feels oddly proud that he can read Bucky’s body language, even when the cat doesn’t realize it.

Steve presses his mouth against Bucky’s soft lips and can practically feel him come apart in his arms. Bucky’s knees clench, gripping Steve’s hips in a spasm that goes right to Steve’s aching erection. His hips take that as a cue to thrust up just to get a taste of friction and Bucky’s back arches in response. He whimpers against Steve’s mouth, and Steve suddenly can’t believe this is really happening, can’t believe how perfectly they’ve fit together, or how their bodies just seem to know what to do.

Steve gently slides his hands down Bucky’s bare throat, over the soft folds of his shirt, then tightens his grip around Bucky’s hips to pull him in even closer. Their tempo has picked up a little, and now Bucky’s erection is grinding against Steve’s through their clothes while Steve holds onto Bucky’s slim waist, setting the pace. Bucky obliges in everything, yields to Steve’s slightest guidance, but when Steve licks against his lips Bucky pulls back slightly.

“No?” Steve asks, totally okay with it if it’s a no.

“Cat’s don’t really. We don’t… and I— I’ve never...” Bucky shakes his head and looks a little lost, so Steve kisses the tip of his nose to reassure him that they’re still having fun.

“Do you mean you’ve never been kissed before? With open mouths?” Steve asks without any amusement lacing his tone. He can already sense that Bucky is on the verge of humiliation, and the last thing his partner needs is to feel patronized.

“Not in the human way,” Bucky admits, and his fangs press into his bottom lip as his face reddens. Steve’s never heard it phrased that way, but supposes that makes sense. Bucky watches plenty of television, probably has seen all kinds of human relationships and dramas. Steve can’t even think of the one time he’s seen cats on TV as anything other than, well, pets. Bucky shrugs one shoulder. “Cats just… we lick. It’s different.”

“When I was little we used to call it Frenching. Thought it was super gross until I got old enough to know better.” Steve chuckles, then gives Bucky a sly smile. “I guess everyone has different ideas of where to put their tongues.”

Bucky bites his own lip harder with a little frustrated sound, and squirms in Steve’s hands. Fondness spreads through Steve like wildfire at the thought that his little comment got that reaction. Bucky looks back up, trying not to sound shy despite the way his hands curl around Steve’s shoulders. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just… it might hurt you.”

Oh, right. Bucky’s sinfully juicy lips conceal a mouth full of carnivorous teeth, a barbed tongue and upper palate. No wonder cats don't kiss, but it’s a shame; Steve thinks about that sharp mouth on other parts of his body and shivers. “Can I still try?”

Bucky swallows and nods, his mouth already reaching back to Steve’s, demanding a second chance. Steve pushes his tongue inside immediately, and the kiss steals his breath away. Bucky’s mouth is hot, much hotter than his own, and when Steve’s tongue slides over Bucky’s it goes in smoothly. Kissing a humanoid feline is definitely a different sensation than kissing another human; the texture so deeply ribbed that Steve can immediately feel it when he enters. There’s a taste too, beyond the salty soy sauce he detects from their meal. It’s not quite like he remembers his last kiss tasting — Sam’s kiss — but it’s still _delicious_ because it’s Bucky. Bucky’s mouth, Bucky’s tongue, Bucky’s teeth, Bucky’s hot, wet saliva sliding along on top of it all.

When Steve tries to draw his tongue back and it catches on all the tiny spines at once and his mouth parts in a gasp. Bucky startles at Steve’s reaction, opening his mouth wider to unhook Steve’s tongue from his own. “Warned you,” Bucky says. He’s teasing, but still looks worried.

“That was—” Steve rolls his tongue a few times, hyper aware of the smooth texture of his own mouth. “That was _amazing.”_

Bucky snorts, and one eyebrow pops up, not believing him for a second.

“I mean it,” Steve says, and kisses him on the mouth, once, twice, and a third, lingering time without pushing for anything more. Bucky is surprised by each one, not keeping up. “Can I take you to bed?”

Bucky blinks after the assault, then concern darkens his face as he glances away. “I dunno,” he says softly. “I mighta had too much sushi…”

Steve follows his gaze to the plastic containers, abandoned on the coffee table, before he picks up on the sarcasm and laughs once into Bucky’s neck. Bucky cracks immediately, laughing with him before he catches Steve’s mouth with a sloppy kiss of his own, and his purring continues. What Bucky’s kisses lack in experience he makes up for in sheer determination and that sets Steve on absolute fucking fire.

Without another word, Steve lifts Bucky off the couch. The cat’s ankles hook at the small of Steve’s back and he tilts his head back when he walks them both out of the living room as Bucky pours kisses into his mouth. Bucky tentatively darts his own tongue past Steve’s lips and Steve nearly stumbles from the unexpected thrill of it. _Quick learner,_ Steve thinks, and moans when the barbs drag across the roof of his mouth when Bucky pulls back. He kicks open his own bedroom door, and they are momentarily parted when they collapse onto his bed with an _oomf!_

Steve hungrily reclaims Bucky’s buzzing mouth and tugs him to the edge of the bed, then slots himself between his legs. Steve presses him into the mattress with his own body in order to feel every little hitch of Bucky’s chest and thrust of Bucky’s hips. Bucky’s purr is interrupted only by tiny whimpers and desperate licks, his tail twitching erratically up and down on the bedspread beside them as he pants and tries to keep up.

Steve winces when his tongue catches on Bucky’s barbs, moans as the sharp little hooks drag over the sensitive flesh, but doesn’t stop kissing him. The sensation is just on the right side of painful, sending an electric current straight from his mouth to his balls, making his dick twitch so hard it starts to ache. “God, Bucky,” Steve pants, having a hard time deciding between speaking and breathing and getting more of that sharp, purring mouth. “I want that. Want that _everywhere.”_ Then Bucky nips at Steve’s lower lip and Steve’s hips spasm in response, grinding against Bucky’s own erection. “Oh, fuck!”

“Off,” Bucky huffs, with a demanding tug at the closed top button of Steve’s jacket. “Take this off.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve says, and flings off that fucking uniform faster than he ever has before. Normally he folds it, takes extra care not to fuck up the ribbon rack or lose the blue infantry cord, but what’s the point of all that respect now? It all comes to pieces as he yanks and pulls (and he’s pretty sure tears) the uniform from his shoulders with Bucky’s help. His JCS pin goes skittering across the floor and one button snaps off at the shank. The slacks are last to go and when he yanks the patent leather strap of his belt through his buckle, Bucky slips open the fly and unzips him, both hands working in perfect unison. As soon as Steve’s slacks are around his knees it all comes to a screeching halt.

Bucky visibly gulps and the purring cuts off. He looks up to Steve with concern painted across his red face. “This is different.”

What was Steve thinking? Bucky had been timid just about kissing and now Steve thrusts his dick in his face? Without asking? “I got carried away,” Steve says, and tries to back out of Bucky’s grip. “We can slow down.”

“No, no!” Bucky reassures him, gripping tighter against Steve’s naked hips, keeping him there between his knees. He doesn’t even look twice at the massive keloid scar running down Steve’s thigh, but he’s holding it with his metal fingers which Steve supposes is sort of like a scar of his own. “I mean, it’s _different._ From mine.”

“Oh!” Steve blurts out in sudden understanding and looks down at his own body. He’s painfully hard, purpling at the tip, leaking a steady stream of precome and generally looks like a mess. He’s never been so aroused in his entire life. He’s also never thought much about how appealing his dick might actually look to a lover. Sam didn’t seem to mind it, but what if it looks monstrous to a feline? “Different how?” ...Is it because he’s uncircumcised?

“It’s just,” Bucky’s eyes dart away, and he tries to find the words, then shakes his head. He reaches down and impatiently lifts off his shirt, then immediately throws open his fly and starts to wriggle out of his pants.

“Wait, wait,” Steve says, and lays his hands on top of Bucky’s, just as they are tantalizingly close to revealing everything. “There’s no rush. Let’s… let’s figure it out together?”

Bucky’s eyes flare as he sits there with his hands gripping his pants, baffled by Steve’s patience, and maybe the tiniest bit exasperated. “Everything about you is just so—” Bucky stops to smile with one corner of his mouth. “So gentle.”

Steve _harrumphs_ and pushes Bucky flat onto his back. “Let’s see if I can convince you to harden me up a bit,” he says, and engulfs Bucky’s mouth with his own. It’s so normal, this playful flirting, that for a moment Steve is able to forget everything he’s been taught about how humans and humanoid felines orbit each other in society. Linked, but never integrated. Kept, but never touched. Petted and spoiled or put to work, but never loved, not like a father would love a son, or a husband would love a spouse.

Now, Steve is flirting like he would with any other guy he’s trying to get into bed: _badly._ But his one liner makes Bucky giggle, a little chiming sound Steve’s not even sure he’s heard from him before, so he blows into the little dip of Bucky’s precious collarbone to make him do it again.

Steve props himself up on one elbow, then sends his free hand down the plane of Bucky’s chest, slips over the flat of his stomach and slows over the pan of his pelvis. Bucky writhes beneath his fingers, back arching as he whimpers into Steve’s mouth for more. It’s amazing to be so close to him now, so careless with the expanse of skin he allows himself to touch, after having been so terrified of letting it get this far. Bucky is just as reverent, his right hand caressing the hard line of Steve’s jaw, carefully avoiding the angry red welt, metal hand clenched at his side as he holds it back.

Some objective part of Steve’s mind that hasn’t been consumed by lust tries to tell him there will be hell to pay for this, but he ignores it, relegating it to the same sort of guilt he feels when he eats a whole pizza by himself. Steve keeps exploring Bucky’s hot little mouth as his hand works into the cat’s pants, finding new techniques to balance the inviting suck of his tongue and unforgiving pull of the barbs.

“Captain,” Bucky moans into his mouth, and Steve breaks the kiss long enough to watch Bucky’s tail thump impatiently on the bedspread beside him. _“Please.”_

Bucky thinks Steve is stalling. “I’m taking my time,” Steve reassures him, but tucks his fingers under the elastic of Bucky’s underwear to prove he’s not being shy. At the same time he scooches down, in order to trail kisses down Bucky’s neck, under his collar and across his chest. He stops at the edge of Bucky's horrible scars, lets his lips flutter delicately over the puckered, shiny skin. “I want to get to know you.”

Bucky’s hips lift up in an impatient thrust, pressing his erection into Steve’s hand. _Someone’s needy,_ Steve thinks, but that combined with a few more thumps of Bucky’s tail is enough to dissolve Steve’s own patience and he palms Bucky’s erection while suckling on his exposed, rigid nipple.

So far so good; Steve feels a dick not very different from his own. Unlike Bucky’s mouth, the skin is incredibly smooth to the touch, taut and very warm. The tip has no defining ridge, making it more uniform, like a bullet. He tentatively wraps his hand around its length, feels the weight of it in his palm, and Bucky gasps, takes a hold of his face and pulls him up for a kiss.

 _Very_ quick learner.

Steve slips his hand lower to gently cup Bucky’s balls. They are smooth and loose, hot to the touch like the rest of his sex, and Steve massages them, wondering how in the fucking world it became expected for male cats to have them surgically removed. That thought actually causes a physical pain to leap up in Steve’s chest, and it pulls a small horrified sound out of his throat that makes Bucky jump.

“What?” Bucky asks, panting and confused and beautiful.

“Nothing, nothing,” Steve says, pushing the negative thoughts away. Now isn’t the time for that problem; he could worry about it later when he wakes up from this incredible dream. “Just can't believe how amazing you feel. Not so different from me.”

Bucky gives a tiny cry when Steve’s hand wraps back around him, makes a lazy stroke and tightens around the tip. Bucky then licks up to taste Steve’s cheek, then his ear, then the the side of his neck. He circles Steve’s shoulders with both arms and pulls him down closer, his rough tongue shredding across the surface of Steve’s skin while he purrs and purrs and purrs.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve moans; tightens his fist as the cat jerk himself in and out of his hand. “Jesus.” Steve wants to fuck him, wants to feel the heat inside Bucky’s body on his aching hard dick, or hell, wants Bucky to stretch him out and fill him up, but he forces himself to go slow. Savor the moment, keep things soft, gentle, because Bucky’s had too many hard edges in his life and Steve doesn’t want to be one of them.

“Mmnff,” Bucky says, between purring and licking and nuzzling. “Careful, s-sir. If you squeeze—”

Steve feels a sharp pain on the top of his hand, yanks his hand from Bucky’s pants with a hiss. “What the fuck!” A tiny ring of punctures dot the top of his hand, right along the sides of his thumb and pointer finger where he had made a ring around Bucky’s dick. “Am I bleeding?”

“Warned you,” Bucky says again, even more bratty than the last time. He practically slithers against the bedspread, arms tossed up over his head while he stares up with glassy eyes and a lazy smile. “It’s different.”

“Does it have _teeth!”_

Bucky grins, showing off his fangs as he trails his fingers from his collar over his own belly. Steve looks up and momentarily forgets the sting as he follows them down. Bucky smoothly lifts his hips from the mattress, the full length of his body exposed; a broad chest leading to taut abdominals and a tiny waist that flexes as he moves. He rocks his hips achingly slowly from side to side when he tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and eases them off, tail threading through the hole in the back. All Bucky is left with is his bright red collar, his dangling licensed, and the leather glove on his metal hand. Otherwise they are finally both naked, together.

Bucky takes a hold of Steve’s hand, leads it over the dusting of hair around his navel, back to his erection. “See?” Bucky boldly wraps Steve’s fingers around his own dick, and now Steve realizes Bucky’s anatomy is indeed slightly different. It’s bright pink and the skin looks thin and delicate, like an eyelid, but it’s tight and glossy like the inside of a cheek. It’s also completely uniform in color and texture, the head defined only by two slits on the sides, reminding Steve somewhat of fish gills.

“Not so different,” Bucky admits. “Except, if you press here,” Bucky demonstrates, using Steve’s fingers to pinch the tip. “You force the barbs out.” The two gills (for lack of a better word) fold out, revealing tiny, hooked barbs. When Bucky releases the pressure, the barbs retract, but Steve’s jaw still hangs loose.

So. Humanoid felines have a barbed dick. Great. That’s _great._

“That _is_ different,” Steve says quietly, and already wants it in his mouth. “Can you control it?”

“Nope,” Bucky says, and shakes his head against the bedspread, but it looks like he’s just enjoying rubbing his ears against the soft fabric. His eyes are still glassy, his smile effortless and cheeky. If Steve didn’t know better he would have thought the cat was drunk. “They only come out when I orgasm.” He turns his cheeky smile into a mischievous one that makes Steve’s eyes go wider. “Wanna see?”

Steve’s mouth goes dry. Apparently Bucky knows how to flirt too. He even goes so far as to laugh at Steve’s expense, clearly proud of what he had just done. “Yes,” Steve answers flatly. “Fuck yes.”

* * *

Bucky feels drunk.

Steve’s mouth is velvety soft, and somehow finds all the parts of him that apparently ached for this kind of attention his whole life. Bucky is self conscious like he would be with any mate; he just ate, didn’t have time to shower - and _fuck_ \- Brock of all people is the last person whose scent still lingers on his scruff. It makes it easier that this is Steve touching him now, Steve who doesn’t care about _any_ of that, which takes all his fears and tucked them away someplace that won’t bother him for however long the human decides to put his mouth on Bucky’s alien body.

Being so fearless goes right to Bucky’s head and he feels downright smug about it, only until Steve’s mouth discovers something new to touch and he whines helplessly into the charged air between them.

“Mmm,” Steve hums in response, circling Bucky’s nipple again with his tongue as he lazily rolls Bucky’s balls in his palm. “This okay?”

 _Okay?_ It feels so good Bucky wants to fucking _cry._

Does everyone know bodies can be used like this? Steve isn’t even pleasuring himself, his hard cock left alone against Bucky’s hip. Instead, the human is entirely focused on playing between Bucky’s legs with careful fingers, finding every single one of his ticklish spots hidden beneath Bucky’s collar with satin strokes of his tongue, and using his heavier weight to hold Bucky in place as he learns what makes Bucky squirm. It gives Bucky an odd sense of feeling dominated and sheltered at the same time, and that’s never been something Bucky’s experienced in all his long years of mating.

So far Bucky hasn’t been brave enough to reach down and touch him. Despite his size, Steve’s body seems so delicate, even more vulnerable now that he’s naked. Silky skin stretched over rounded muscles, golden hair that stands up ridiculously since he tossed away his service cap. Bucky spent his last years in the military protecting this body from war, and now it feels crude to take that part of the human in his scarred and calloused fingers.

Yet every time Bucky’s tongue finds its way across Steve’s cool skin, the captain shivers, and his hips thrust just enough to reward his own cock with a bit of friction from where it’s pressed between them. Bucky wants to give him what he wants, wants the captain to moan and pant and get lost in this pleasure with him. It’s only fair. It’s just hard to focus with that mouth delicately nudging the sensitive skin of his surgery site, the scar lighting up with long forgotten nerves as Steve offers even the ugliest parts of him love.

“How’s this?” Steve gusts over the wet spot he made. “Still okay?”

Bucky means to say “yes,” but it comes out as, _“eehh, ha!”_ and Steve laughs at his helplessness because he’s a punk human. Bucky takes a chance and slips effortlessly from beneath the human’s weight, then grabs him by the elbow and flips him onto his back.

“Whoa—” Steve starts, but it turns into a _“ah!”_ when Bucky latches his mouth onto his pink nipple. Steve’s fist immediately curls into Bucky’s hair, partly around one ear, and spasms. “Fuck! Bucky! Oh!” Bucky presses a delicate bite around the ring of Steve’s areola, but doesn’t lick; just flexes the muscle of his tongue enough for the barbs to catch and release without too much drag. Steve’s grip goes tighter on the back of his head. “I need— please! I want it— Oh, Buck. Harder!”

Well, okay then. Turns out the Captain is a little kinky. Bucky flattens his tongue and presses his chin down in a prolonged lick across one nipple, then the other. Steve gives a small cry, and thrusts his hips into Bucky’s. Their erections slide against one another and Bucky has to catch his breath in the dip between Steve’s pecs before he can do it again. It feels so good to have just that much skin contact that Bucky can’t help but thrust back, and soon they are lost in the simple friction pressed between their legs. Steve kisses his ears, each one separately several times, then buries his face in the top of his head and moans.

“Bucky,” he whispers. “Can I fuck you?”

Bucky whimpers in response, because how the fuck do words even work at this point, and crawls up so that he can sit on Steve’s lap. His hair is in his eyes, his metal arm is responding sluggishly, and he already feels sweaty and wrecked, but he manages to nod once. Consent is the most important thing.

“Wait, wait,” Steve says, shaking his head.

_Fucking now fucking what…!_

Steve grunts when he leans over, still holding Bucky by the hip to keep him on his lap, and reaches for his bedside drawer. He tugs it sharply open, impatiently digs around, and pulls out a small plastic bottle. “Got it,” he gusts in relief, and holds up a small, glossy plastic bottle in triumph.

“Got what?” Bucky frowns down at it, wondering why he’s supposed to care when all he wants is to sit on Steve’s dick.

“Lube?” Steve says, one eyebrow going up when he passes Bucky the bottle. “It’s good stuff. Just got it a couple— well, recently enough.”

Bucky turns it over in his metal fingers, his right hand still holding onto Steve’s waist. From the label it looks like the stuff is actually meant for sex. “Huh,” is all Bucky can say about that. He turns it over but he’s not going to bother reading the label now. “It works better than spit?”

“Oh,” Steve’s face clouds over for the briefest moment, but he visibly pushes away whatever he had been thinking and cracks into a smile. “It’s the best.”

Bucky can tell something just happened there beneath the surface, knows that he’s done something that’s just reminded Steve of everything they’re doing, so he pushes the bottle back into Steve's hands. He’ll be damned if they get derailed now. “Show me?”

* * *

Steve’s heart makes an odd little twist when he figures out that Bucky has no idea what Lube is. He’s painfully reminded of the time he had walked in on him all those years ago, and saw Brock forcing Bucky up against the shower wall. Steve’s not an idiot, he knew that didn’t involve anything careful or responsible, but somehow the thought that Bucky has never experienced sex without much more than spit makes him angry.

“Show me?” Bucky says, giving him the bottle right back. His earnest trust chases away Steve’s dark memories, letting him focus on the joy of sharing something new with the man in his lap.

He puts a liberal amount in his palm, rolls his fingers over it to warm it up. “You'll love it,” he promises. “Start like this,” he says, gently taking Bucky’s dick into his hand and gives it a few long strokes.

“Oh, Steve,” Bucky gasps, and his hips spasm forward into Steve’s grip. “Oh, oh…”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. He looks up at Bucky’s incredible arch as the cat enjoys himself, head tilted slightly back and mouth open to let out his quickening breath. Steve can see his sharp teeth, the ribbed roof of his mouth, the top of his tongue curling as he pants. Bucky has stopped purring for now, unable to keep up with it as he whimpers and moans and cries out Steve’s name. Steve can’t say that he minds too much.

“How is it?” Steve asks, and gathers up his own leaking dick in his hand so he can jerk both of them off at the same time. It’s a little complicated, working Steve’s own foreskin along the smooth shiny skin of Bucky’s dick, but he soon finds a pace that works for them both. All Bucky does is gasp, bite down on his lip, and then gasp again when he can no longer hold his breath. Steve watches the pleasure play out across Bucky’s face. “Pretty good, huh?”

“Yes!” Bucky cries out, and Steve almost laughs at his unselfconscious delight. “Good! Yes! Steve!”

Bucky is so beautiful, so full of life while he enjoys this simple pleasure, that it’s impossible for Steve to imagine others having done him such terrible harm. Steve takes in his taught body, glistening with sweat, and shuts his eyes when he remembers that Bucky had been brutalized to the point where he didn’t want to exist anymore, to forego any chance of future happiness just to make it all end. Yet here he is, moaning and needy and gasping, panting out small words of encouragement as Steve pumps his slick hand up and down. Taking what he wants from his life, such as it is, and Steve would give him the world if he asked.

Steve’s grip on Bucky’s waist clenches. He suddenly feels fiercely protective but also invincible, like he could take on the entire United States Army if he had to defend him, and then show Bucky how loving and tender the world could actually be.

“You okay?” Bucky pants, bringing Steve back to himself, and he realizes he hasn’t said anything for a long time. Bucky eyes are still lidded with pleasure, but he’s watching Steve keenly from under the dark fringe of his sweat soaked hair.

“Amazing,” Steve says. “Everything’s amazing.”

Bucky answers him with a shy smile, then carefully reaches down and picks up Steve’s hand from off his hip, then puts two of his fingers into his mouth. “Oh, fuck...” Steve whispers, his breath stolen away by the sensation. Bucky sucks them down, pulsing his barbed tongue against the pads of Steve’s fingertips. He bites down past the second knuckle, using just enough pressure with his sharp teeth for Steve to feel it. When Bucky opens his eyes and looks back down at him with nothing but adoration Steve almost loses it. “Oh, _fuck!”_

Steve sits up, forcing Bucky slightly back, and slides his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, right over his own fingers. He uses them to pull Bucky deeper into the sloppy kiss, hooking them inside his hot mouth, and Bucky moans, taking it all in like a champ. His hips don’t stop, getting what he wants from the slick heat between them. “S-Steve,” he moans, when they break apart. “I give you my consent,” his voice is high, breathless. “Dominate me. Please.”

“Oh, God,” Steve says, and shakes his head as his morality flinches at the phrase. He wants to try and work out that request, thinks that the right thing to do is have a conversation about what it means, but then Bucky fucking _whines._ His want has turned into a desperate need, and Steve’s concentration scatters. “Yeah,” he pants, and has to swallow because he thinks he’s actually started to drool a little. “Okay.”

* * *

Bucky is terrified. When he took that first, cautious step into the captain’s lap he had no idea how this would feel, not just as his entire body lights up with heat and pleasure and sex, but inside, where something hard and protected has started to crack wide open. Never before had he thought he’d want to be dominated, not really. He’s too big and too strong, and hell — too well trained to ever feel sheltered in another male’s body.

But the captain — _Steve_ — is showing him something he’s never seen before, something he had no idea was even possible. He’s trained to be this human’s protector, had accepted that his life is worth more than all nine of Bucky’s long ago. Now, he feels different when he watches the human smile up at him; smaller, precious and revered.

“Dominate me,” he begs, even as he’s already fucking in and out of Steve’s hand. “Please.”

Steve hesitates, and Bucky remembers that means something different to humans, but can’t think straight anymore and wants it so fucking bad he just winds up whining gibberish when he tries to explain.

“Yeah,” Steve reassures him, his big broad chest pressed against Bucky’s own. “Okay.” He sends one hand down Bucky’s backside but startles when he hits the top of Bucky’s tail, like he forgot it would be there. Bucky flinches from the reaction and Steve winds up freezing, not sure what to do about it. “Sorry,” he huffs out quickly, like he’s apologizing for accidentally poking Bucky in the eye.

“You can touch it,” Bucky insists. He meant to tease Steve, but it comes out high and desperate. His balls clench, begging him for release, so maybe he is, a little. “Here, touch here,” he explains, and reaches behind him to guide Steve’s hand. Steve looks him in the eye when his hand gently comes to a rest on the root of Bucky's tail, right where the soft fuzz at the small of his back thickens into the full flank of his most non-human body part.

“Pressing here is like, um, asking for sex,” Bucky points out. Steve’s brow furrows as he considers it. Bucky can't really blame him because it sounds weird when he says it out loud like that, but then Steve gives a tentative little push. “Ah!” Bucky’s hips thrust back and he lets out an exhausted whine, dropping his forehead to Steve’s shoulder. Steve pulls his hand away immediately, but when he sees that it wasn’t a cry of pain he puts it back, keeping the other one on Bucky’s hip.

“Like this?” Steve watches Bucky’s face carefully and pushes again. Bucky feels his bones turn to jelly as he arches and his hips drive back. He shoves Steve onto his back so that he can rest on all fours, giving his tail space to stand up behind him. Otherwise, he might just snap in half from the urgent need for release.

“Fuck,” Bucky pants, and he doesn't care about sounding desperate anymore because he simply aches for it. “Fuck me? Please?”

Steve doesn't say anything else, just straightens his legs out under Bucky and snaps open his bottle of sex lubricant. It feels amazing, the oily slickness of it, and Bucky can't believe how much better it is than what he’s used to. It’s nothing short of miraculous when Steve’s fingers find their way between his legs and tentatively push against the tight ring of muscle there.

“No barbs here, right?” He asks, grinning when he asks between gasps.

“None! ‘m pretty sure…”

Steve snorts out a laugh then, and Bucky shivers when he swirls his fingers around the rim. He would have thought being teased like this would be infuriating, but it helps draw out the sweet ache of need from between his legs. Steve is a little amused when he talks again, “Pretty sure? That doesn’t sound confident.”

“Honestly?” Bucky moans, his voice hitching when Steve’s finger pushes inside him. “Never— _ohfuck_ — never had to think about it before.”

“Mmm, worth the risk,” Steve confesses, but Bucky isn’t really listening anymore. He can feel Steve inside him, can feel his body responding to the pressure, opening up. “Wow, Bucky. You barely need any prep at all, you’re so ready.”

“Tail,” Bucky manages. “Tail is asking for sex.” Does that make sense? He doesn’t know. Instead, he squirms forward and Steve slips his finger out, uses one hand to hold his cock while the other guides Bucky’s hips down. “Fuck!” It nudges against him at first, the resistance taking a full three heartbeats to give way before Bucky’s stomach clenches up and he cries out.

Steve is pulled tight beneath him, keeping as still as possible while Bucky takes him in. “You — _ngh!_ — you okay?”

“Yes!” Bucky loves it when Steve asks, still can’t even believe he cares so much. “Yes! More!”

Of course Steve is perfectly happy to give him whatever he wants, everything he’s ever asked for, and his hips give a firm but careful thrust upward. Bucky wishes he could open his legs even wider, but squeezes them shut instead, holding Steve there between his knees as he bottoms out. He’s noticed the size difference between them, Bucky’s own cock is thinner, sharper, and maybe a little longer. Steve’s cock seems enormous in comparison, hefty and broad, like the rest of his body, and Bucky feels like it’s filling up every inch of him.

“Fuck, Bucky,” Steve pants, as Bucky picks up a steady rhythm, working himself up and down the length of it. Steve takes a hold of Bucky’s own cock again, still slippery and warm from all the lube, and leaves the other hand on Bucky’s hip. “Fuck! Bucky!”

“Yes!” Bucky cries. “Steve!”

* * *

Steve can hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears, can feel the tight muscles inside Bucky’s body wrapping around his dick and squeezing. He’s so close he’s started to lose sense of direction, forgetting if he’s on his back or up in the air. Bucky’s body suddenly spasms, and Steve knows he’s hit something good, so he thrusts up into it to make sure he can hit it again and again.

“Yes!” Bucky cries. “Steve!”

Steve comes plummeting back to earth when Bucky’s claws spring out, and the cat’s entire body sits straight up, tail and all. Bucky throws back his head and his mouth opens as if to scream but no sound comes out. When it does his voice is ragged, wrecked, and Steve isn’t quite sure he’s heard him right. “What?”

“My tail! Pull it!” Steve grabs Bucky’s tail from where it’s standing up and pulls it towards him. Bucky makes a needy little sound and then cries out,“Harder!”

Steve yanks, and the scream finds its way out from inside Bucky’s chest, deepened by the cat’s roaring cry as he loses control. His hips jerk forward and he freezes, and a steady stream of come streaks all the way up to Steve’s chest. The grooves unfold around the tip of Bucky’s dick, and Steve watches in awe as the barbs slip out while Bucky clenches in shaking rigor.

“Jesus! Oh my god, Buck...” Steve had no idea an orgasm could be so beautiful.

Bucky cries out again, one more time as he pulls in a ragged breath, the last of his roar coming out with it. “O-oh,” he sighs out in a stutter as his whole body begins to slump. Steve releases his tail and it drops straight down, boneless. His claws snap back into his hand and the metal plates along his arm shake loose, and he sways drunkenly to one side. “Oh, _oh…”_

Steve catches him when he collapses, letting the cat settle on his chest. He can feel a slight prick on his barbs where Bucky’s dick presses into his belly, but it’s nothing. “I got you,” Steve promises, cradling Bucky’s head against his own neck as he kisses the side of his face. His hips still make a steady pump up and down as the cat catches his breath. “I’ve got you, forever.”

“I love you,” Bucky says, licking the side of Steve’s neck. Then Bucky bites him.

That’s all it takes, and Steve has to grab Bucky’s hip when the pressure building up in the bottom of his gut finally spills over. “Shit!” Steve shouts when the orgasm hits him, and Bucky stays latched on. Suddenly he forgets how to breathe as his whole body seizes up, stars bursting behind his eyes and he crushes Bucky to his chest.

Bucky’s bite relaxes, and Steve’s whole body shudders in one final spasm before he’s finished.

And holy _fuck_ is he finished. It takes a long time before either of them can move. Bucky groans, flexing his thighs incrementally as they try to disengage their overheated, aching bodies. “Ouch,” he dryly complains, and rubs the small of his back. “Ooooh, ouch.”

“Did I hurt you?” Steve isn’t sure if he’s having a hard time seeing or if it’s just dark in his bedroom. Bucky is squirming off of him, and he’s finally soft enough that his dick slips free from his body. “What? Why did you? Shit.” He needs to catch his breath for a few beats before he tries again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t —”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Bucky laughs, then winces in obvious pain as he finally manages to roll off.

Steve rolls halfway with him so that he can stay pressed against Bucky’s shoulder when he settles down onto the mattress. “If it hurts then why did you want me to pull it?”

“Hurts,” Bucky agrees, giving him that one. “But also feels so, _so_ good. Like your whole body zips open to make room for it.”

Steve winces, because that sounds fucking awful. He can’t believe he was so reckless their very first time. He gingerly strokes the tail between them where it remains limp on the bedspread, using only two fingers because he’s an oaf that doesn’t appreciate how goddamn delicate tails are. Bucky touches his wrist, and gives Steve a short purr. “Don’t worry,” he says, when he catches Steve’s unconvinced look. “I’ll be able to feel my legs again in like ten minutes.”

“Oh, fuck!” Steve claps his hand over his eyes, but Bucky just laughs at his expense because he’s a jerk, and totally had Steve fooled, all over again.

* * *

Sometime later, after they’ve caught their breath and the evening has fully bled into night, Steve finds himself clutched tightly in the protective curl of Bucky’s body. He tries not to tense when he’s suddenly struck with all the awful thoughts he pushed aside earlier. The danger they’re in, the tragedy of Bucky’s life. He’s still never mentioned how he wound up in the Red Room, what Dr. Lukin had done to him that was so awful he had chosen death over the alternative. That someone could have cut into that precious body, torn his sensitive skin, or raised a hand to him in anger… Steve clenches his eyes shut and sighs with grief, but Bucky wraps his arms around his shoulders and squeezes.

“Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?” He tries to force his voice not to shake.

“Is it common for human mates to have such _awful_ first interactions with each other's parents?”

Steve has to take two beats to think about Bucky’s question. Parents aren’t exactly the first thing that comes to his mind after sex, but then everything with Bucky is going to be new territory. “Yes, actually,” he confesses, then bursts out laughing.

It’s wildly inappropriate after everything they’ve gone through; the very real danger they are in from Steve’s father, the life Bucky’s mother is forced to live. Despite the entire rest of the world being against them, giddiness quickly overwhelms him and soon Bucky is also shaking with laughter. It’s the same sense of euphoria that overcame them after Operation Lemurian Star had gone disastrously wrong, trapping them in that tiny sanctuary of collapsing rubble, both sure they were going to die.

Steve laughs until his eyes water and he buries his face into Bucky’s side, trying to catch his breath all over again. After the giggles finally subside, they lapse into a long silence, content to just hold each other, breathe each other’s air, and let what they just committed settle over them.

Finally, Steve has to break the silence. “Still awake?”

“Hmm?” Bucky mumbles. “Yessir.”

Steve doesn't mind Bucky lapsing into formality. He knows it's just the way the cat's identified him at this point, like his name. “I want you to listen to me,” Steve carefully starts, and the weight in his tone makes Bucky look down in surprise, ears standing up with curiosity. Steve props himself up on one elbow, then cards his fingers through Bucky’s hair, caressing one ear before he lets his hand settle on the side of his face. “If they come for you, I want you to run.”

Bucky blinks slowly, gazing up at him with complete trust as he considers this new order, then nods. “And who would be coming for me?”

“Director Fury, Director Coulson. MP’s. Hell, even Private Lorraine. They might send someone you know to gain your trust.” Steve feels like he’s betrayed Natalie by saying so, but he’d be a fool not to consider that tactic.

Bucky considers his words carefully, before he quietly asks, “Major Wilson?”

 _Fuck,_ Steve thinks. His heart aches at the thought that Sam could be ordered to bring Bucky in, but he doesn't have enough time to tell his friend everything that's happened. He looks down at Bucky, his _lover,_ and realizes he wouldn't even know how. He loves Sam, trusts him with his life, but he would never expect him to understand. “Anyone other than me,” Steve hedges instead, so he doesn't have to admit it. “I’ll find you this time, I swear it. I’m not going to let them take you from me again.”

Bucky nods. “What about this?” He taps the metal license, sitting in the little dip between his collarbones. The tracker inside would ensure he couldn't get far.

“Get rid of it,” Steve says, but Bucky looks away, clearly unhappy with that idea.

“It's hard to live without it,” he admits. “Dangerous. Almost impossible.”

“I know,” Steve says, and kisses him. “I know it is. But if they take you this time I don’t think I could stand it,” Steve shakes his head, kisses Bucky again. “You have to run.”

“Alright,” Bucky agrees, nudging up into Steve’s face with his nose until Steve takes the hint and kisses him on the mouth. They finally break just long enough for Bucky to frown. “Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I’m hungry again.”

Steve collapses with laughter, buries his face in his pillow and shoves Bucky towards the edge of the bed with one hand, despite the cat’s protests. He claims his tail still hurts, but Steve knows better. Bucky can go get his own goddamn second dinner.

* * *

***NSFW WARNING*** 

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Buck having a good ol' time with Steve by [certifiedsinbin](http://certifiedsinbin.tumblr.com/post/157129788261/nsfw-commissions-i-did-this-weekend-for)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, they made it! Finally some nice hardcore Stucky. What a journey! It's a long way from over, though. Originally, I was going to have this be a part of a much longer chapter, but decided these guys could use a break. I hope I was able to do it justice, I personally am not very confident in my ability to write smut. ^_^ The plot will make a triumphant return in the next chapter.
> 
> Also, I hope you also enjoy the artwork! This is the first of several very, very NSFW pieces coming in the next few updates, so this is a pre-warning to scroll to the bottom of these new chapters with care ;)


	21. Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW WARNING** The illustration at the end of this fic is NSFW!!!
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

The thermostat has been locked at 60 degrees ever since Bucky moved in, but Steve wakes up warm and comfortable despite the crispness of the air. He snuggles his spare pillow even closer to his chest and smiles into the soft fabric, thinking of him, of their exhausting night together. Steve finally cracks open his eyes when he can’t feel the reassuring weight of the cat beside him.

“There you are,” Steve sighs, when he finds Bucky tied into a tidy little knot on top of the blankets by his knees. He’s still asleep, breathing steadily, face hidden beneath grey tail fluff. Bucky is completely naked, Steve’s rule about joining him in bed only when he’s wearing pajamas is no longer in effect. Steve keeps his chuckle soft when he reaches down to caress one of Bucky’s ears.

Despite that long miserable day, despite Fury’s promise of ‘changes’ looming over their heads, Steve can’t help but enjoy this strange, relaxing moment as he digs the tips of his fingers into the fuzz behind Bucky’s ear. There’s something therapeutic about watching Bucky sleep; occupying that deep, soundless place where none of the terrible things to come can reach him.

The cat doesn’t stir, apparently too wiped out to respond to Steve’s gentle prodding, so he gets up, showers again, shaves, and pulls a fresh uniform out of his closet. The purple ribbon with gold trim catches his eye when he double checks his rack in the mirror, and he thinks of Sakhalin. Operation Lemurian Star was a flashpoint in both their lives, triggering changes to their world that neither of them could have ever predicted. It’s amazing how far they’ve come, and yet it feels natural that they wound up here, in this very situation, together. It all worked out, despite what they suffered.

Who is he kidding, Steve suddenly reminds himself with a hard look into his own eyes. They’re so, _so_ fucked, and here he is thinking this had been some grand, romantic destiny? And what is the point of making sure his necktie is perfectly knotted, his buttons shiny and polished, and his blue infantry cord properly tucked under his epaulet, anyway? Steve tsks, yanks it off, and drops it onto his side table. It’s not like it was a regulation part of his uniform. Just a meaningless gesture to make him feel like he is somehow still connected to the people who risk their lives every day on the front lines to make a difference.

Steve checks on Bucky one more time, kisses his ears, then quietly leaves the apartment, letting the cat stay in that safe, restful haven a while longer.

* * *

Steve is greeted at the gate (and reception, and the elevator, and main entry to the J5 offices,) with perfect salutes. He manages to snap off return salutes at each point, despite the rat’s nest of anxiety growing in his gut. He feels like everyone at the Pentagon is watching, judging him for what he did last night, with his cat.

 _Pervert,_ his own father called him. _Feliphile._

Steve holds his breath when he passes Lorraine’s desk, keeping his eyes forward on Director Fury’s office door, determined to make it all the way there without expressing any shame over what he’s done. No guilty frowns, no downward glances, no sloped shoulders, no shuffling feet. He’s in love with Bucky, who happens to be a humanoid feline, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Steve knows this truth is absolute. It would be nice if his sweaty palms were as confident.

“Good morning, sir,” Private Lorraine says again, and Steve jumps. He had been standing outside of Fury’s office for a good two minutes, and Lorraine had to repeat herself. Her desk is closer to Steve’s office door, but apparently he had walked right past her without saying anything.

“Morning,” Steve says. “Sorry, I was somewhere else.”

“Pretty good news, isn’t it?” Lorraine says, just as bubbly as she was when the approval came down for Steve’s SCF benefit, before the President had called it the Winter Soldier program. It seems like a lifetime ago, and a lick of warning crawls up Steve’s neck.

“Oh, I haven’t been on email yet this morning.” Steve’s phone is locked away by now, and he hadn’t bothered to stop at his desk. All he could focus on that morning was the calendar reminder to report to Fury’s office at 0900. “What’s the news?”

“The repairs to the Winter Soldier barracks at Fort McNair were fast tracked,” she beams, then continues when he doesn’t say anything. “Apparently, it’s almost finished! A few buildings are already move-in ready. Great news, right?”

Steve tries to swallow but his mouth goes dry. “Great,” he manages to say, just as the clock on the wall rolls over.

0900\. Time to face the consequences.

* * *

Bucky comes awake slowly at first and his ass fucking hurts. What a night, he thinks, then groans out a strained yawn as he arches his back and curls out his tail, painfully working out the kinks. He sits up suddenly when it occurs to him that he’s alone in the apartment.

Steve’s gone.

 _Off to face Fury,_ Steve had texted him and Bucky frowns at his phone in disappointment before he puts it back on the night stand. He knows it doesn’t do any good, but he pokes his nose into the bathroom, catches the moisture of a recent shower in the air, the scent of lathered soap in the drain. Steve had shaved and pulled out a new uniform, but didn’t bother to make any breakfast for himself.

Irresponsible human.

Just like any other morning, Bucky curls up in his chair with a protein shake and his cellphone, tail draped across his lap for brush. The time only just rolled over to 0900 so Steve would be in with the director of the J5 any minute. Steve’s phone is locked in a shielded cubby since he works in a secure area, but Bucky is nervous and texts him anyway.

 _We’ll be okay,_ he texts. _I can protect you from whatever happens._

Bucky stares at that for a long time before he sighs. Steve wants him to run if things don’t go okay. Wants him to take off his collar, so that no one would be able to track him. His metal fingers instantly go to the red leather strap, and he breathes through the anxiety that pitches inside him at the thought of losing it. Could he really throw it away? After everything he went through without one?

Most public spaces have license scanners at the door, and even smaller shops will have license scanners at the checkout. Bucky thinks about his first few days after his medical discharge from the Army. If the hot dog vendor in the park hadn’t accepted cash, Bucky is sure he would have starved.

Forging a license would be even more dangerous. Random scans by the police could lead to detection and getting arrested with a fake license would be an immediate trip to CFC corrections. The thought makes him feel sick, and he puts his smoothie down on the floor.

Eventually, Bucky is able to drag himself out of his depressive spiral with a text to Tony Stark: _Smiling cat-face emoji, arrow emoji, house emoji._

There, he thinks. That cheered him up.

Bucky exaggerates his stretch, luxuriously letting his soft, groomed tail curl around it, and rubs his ears over the back of the chair, just to make sure the last remnants of General Rogers’s scent is wiped from existence. He sighs when he’s finished, then lets his limbs go boneless over the armrests. “...fuck.”

He’s anxious. But worse, he’s _bored._ He should put some clothes on and leave, just until he gets the all clear from Steve. It’s reckless to be sitting around in the nude, chewing the end of his tail (how did that get there?) and bragging to Tony Stark about how he just fucked his human.

Bucky grins at the thought and holds his phone to his chest. It really had been so amazing, he thinks, as his face heats up. He’s had sex with plenty of other cats in his time, especially once the CFC put him on the non-breeder’s list and he was able to take his pick from the others stuck in the same situation. They weren’t all bad, but they weren’t _anything_ like Steve.

Bucky’s phone buzzes and he finds one single emoji texted from Tony in response: _thumbs up._

Bucky can live with that. He turns on the television, because he isn’t quite done rubbing his backside on the cushion, then sits up in shock when he sees aerial footage from Harlem, New York. The news is reporting on the latest cat riot, Black Panther standing on the wheel of a tipped over car. He’s surrounded by other cats who cover their faces with bandanas and ski masks, ears pulled through sloppily cut holes in the hoods of their sweaters.

Bucky watches for a long time.

Apparently, a cat had been found on the street, tail cut from her body. She had gone to the CFC for help, and wound up in the Red Room. Black Panther is demanding justice, demanding to know why. The newscaster isn’t saying any of this, instead talking about their vandalism and their violence and the animal sounds they make as they terrorize the neighborhood. The newscaster cuts to some pundit that Bucky recognizes, a man who had interviewed him to talk about the SCFs returning from Russia, and he espouses the ‘better route’ the president is taking towards cat’s rights with the Winter Soldier program. Pierce’s goals for adapting humanity’s role in protecting the lives of cats into something more sympathetic are to be admired, while the Wakanda Movement is condemned. “...Nothing but a bunch of dangerous ferals.”

Only the signs of the protesters talk about the victim at all. #Justice4Sakura, they read. Bucky immediately goes to his phone and looks up the hashtag, which has become a general cry for all sorts of cats that vanished into the black hole of the CFCs retraining or laboratory divisions. Even many humans are in on the discussion, sharing footage captured on their cellphones when the news stations refuse to tell the whole story. Sakura’s name winds up on thousands of these posts— tens of thousands, _hundreds._

Bucky’s stomach hurts when he thinks about how she must have died. Those cages. That chair. The red, flashing lights when the ovens heat up the whole room. The _smell._

This has been going on for weeks, while Bucky has been touring with all the press to talk about how the President is sympathetic to cat’s lives, supposedly making huge strides towards their autonomy and security. While he and Steve have been distracted with their own complicated drama, protests like these have cropped up all over the country, with images of Wakanda and the words of Black Panther swirling around each one.

The pundits vanish from the screen as it transitions back to coverage from Brooklyn, where another such protest has just kicked off, and Bucky’s eyes go wide with shock. A scrawny, feral cat with hair the color of dishwater and a flank to match holds up a trashcan lid against the firehose the riot police have turned onto the crowd. He’s thrown off his feet, doesn’t even land on all fours, and Bucky clutches his license when he sees how that trashcan lid has been painted. A white star dead center of interchanging red, white, and blue concentric rings.

Bucky turns off the television, gets dressed, and leaves the apartment.

* * *

It’s easier than Steve thought it would be to impassively listen Fury’s tirade, and do nothing.

The Lt. General starts off by highlighting Steve’s irresponsible behavior, letting Bucky out in public without a muzzle, and being generally lax on discipline. He follows that up quickly with a reminder (as if Steve could forget) that he’ll have to relinquish the cat into SHIELD’s custody after the end of the Winter Soldier campaign. Steve takes that to mean that Fury thinks he’s ruining Bucky’s battle-readiness by letting him do things like breathe and eat in public. Fury reminds him about how he narrowly escaped harsh discipline, and finishes up with what Steve assumes is a rhetorical question.

How could he possibly manage to allow such a skittish hunting cat to attack three-star General Joseph Rogers? Steve tries not to look too surprised at the obvious lie. He’s well past giving a shit about any of this, but at least now knows what his dad had actually reported.

“So he has to wear the muzzle,” Steve repeats, ignoring all the nonsense about the ‘attack’ on his father. “At all times. Even indoors?”

Fury fixes him with his one eye for two heartbeats, a look that Steve knows is meant to get answers. “As long as he’s not on military property,” he reiterates. “Just like any SCF.”

“Understood sir,” Steve says. He’ll never force Bucky to wear a muzzle in their apartment. _Never._

“Of course that won’t be a problem once he relocates to McNair,” Fury huffs, and finally sits down, taking a bit of edge from his tone when he realizes Steve isn’t going to fight back.

“Sorry sir,” Steve says, remembering what Private Lorraine had told him just before his meeting. “I haven’t had time to catch up on my email. When do you want me to relocate him to the Winter Soldier barracks?”

“End of day, Captain,” Fury succinctly informs him, in a tone that tells him Steve probably should have just read the email after the meeting rather than asking Fury to repeat himself. “He’ll be able to finish the campaign trail from there. I expect him to go through orientation in time to be available for the other SCFs when they start arriving after the President’s award ceremony. We still have to trot him out in front of the cameras to promote the initiative in the meantime.”

“Wearing a muzzle?”

Fury’s eyebrow goes up, giving Steve his second warning. “Wearing a muzzle,” he repeats again.

“Yes, sir,” Steve says, not bothering to argue. End of day. That doesn’t give them a lot of time.

Fury continues to stare for a few moments longer, and Steve can almost feel him picking apart his memories of last night, when Bucky cried out his name in ecstasy. “Do you have anything else to say for yourself?”

“No, sir.”

Fury leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers, trying to sort out the puzzle. “I’m surprised, Rogers. It isn’t like you to have nothing to say.”

“I suppose not, sir.”

Fury taps two fingers against his chin, his one eye continuing to chip apart Steve’s soul from behind his desk. “Dismissed.” Steve turns to leave, but Fury calls him back. “Hold on, Captain. What’s that?”

“Sir?” Steve crushes the panic when he reaches up to the teeth marks on his neck. He was sure his shirt collar had covered the tender area where Bucky had latched on the night before. But instead he winces when he touches the tender spot left by his father’s backhand on his jaw. He had forgotten about that. He tends to heal quickly from small injuries like that, and the bruise should be mostly gone by now. Apparently, it’s just dark enough still to stand out on his pale skin. “Oh. That. Walked into a door.” Well, that was a stupid and obvious lie. Fury clearly thinks so, since his eyebrows pop up towards his shiny, bald head.

“A three star door?”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Look,” Fury sits up. “I don’t claim to understand a man’s relationship with his father. My grand dad told me I wouldn’t amount to anything, trusting the government to pay my salary, even after I got my stars ‘n bars. Even when he was getting ready to die after a lifetime of minimum wage, working at a hotel.” Fury pauses and Steve frowns, only doubting his story because Lt. Gen. Fury isn’t the sort of man to reveal personal details like that to a subordinate. Even the way the man lost his eye is apparently classified. “What I do understand,” he continues, “is that you’ve gone through great lengths for this cat of yours. I understand he was a hero, one of the Army’s best assets on Sakhalin. It doesn’t really follow that a cat like that would attack a three star general for any reason. But a cat like that, trained to protect the human CO he’s served with? Well, I understand that maybe a hunter would attack that three star general, if he thought the CO he’s supposed to protect was in trouble.”

Steve doesn’t say a word.

“That starting to sound like I understand things a bit better, captain?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Steve says, because giving Fury the answer he’s looking for would be taking him into his confidence, and Steve isn’t ready to trust anyone in the government just yet. If Project Insight is actually happening, then Fury must know about it. “If that’s what my father says happened, then that’s what happened.”

* * *

Steve tries to leave immediately after, but Pentagon isn’t exactly easy to sneak out of. Private Lorraine is the first to hold him up, in order to double check the interview schedule for the day. Steve confirms they’ll be present at each one, managing to come off engaged and committed even while in the back of his mind he’s already considering what he needs to pack.

Lorraine is also responsible for the first set of deliveries to the barracks and needs him to double check the final waybill. He looks it over for all of five seconds before scrawling his signature at the bottom and finally hurries out of the J5 offices. When he sees Director Coulson marching meaningful down the hall, Steve ducks into the bathroom then immediately out the door on the other side of it, skips up one set of half stairs to another floor so that he can catch the elevator back down to the garage.

Steve needs to get home in time for him and Bucky to formulate a plan, before anyone can realize they’re missing. He certainly doesn’t need SHIELD getting involved now.

“Where's the fire?” A smokey voice beside him smoothly inquires, and Steve shouts in alarm, drops his keys on the ground, and leaps backwards from his car door about three feet.

“Natasha!” Steve gasps, hand to heart, then hisses in frustration. “I don't have time for this.”

Natasha slips out from between two neighboring cars, unconcerned with his impatience. “Things with Fury go that well, huh?”

“It was a delight,” Steve murmurs as he retrieves his keys. “As usual.”

Natasha nods, graciously conceding to that. “So you know the timeline has been put in place for Bucky?”

“Yeah, Fort McNair barracks by the end of the day,” Steve recaps, flinging open the driver’s side door. If she knows everything, then what the hell does she want?

“Not the barracks,” Natasha says. “Activating him as our asset in the Wakanda Movement.”

Steve freezes, seat belt halfway drawn across his chest. Natasha had probably been sent after Coulson failed to catch up with him. It doesn't matter, he tells himself, ignoring that spike of annoyance. They were going to run.

“I have to go,” Steve says. “Late for an interview.”

Natasha, being Natasha, helps herself to the passenger’s seat of his car, then clicks her seat belt into place with a level stare. “I’ll catch you up on the way.”

_Fuck!_

It doesn’t matter. They were going to run. Steve gives her a pleasant smile, starts his car and heads back towards the city.

“We have intel that Panther’s people will be at the Nobel Prize ceremony for Pierce.”

“Fancy cats at a fancy party full of fancy people,” Steve grunts. “Imagine that.”

“Cats wearing falsified licenses,” Natasha explains, crosses her legs and smooths her hands over her knee, like she’s brushing off lint from the smooth, leather of her leggings. “Also minimal security. It’s a party celebrating peace, after all. What better way to send a message about conflict?” She isn’t really asking, since she obviously already knows.

“It’s a party with the President of the United States,” Steve argues, trying to steer the conversation back into something he can control, even though he knows he lost the moment she showed up. “Secret Service will be everywhere. Black Panther won’t get within a mile of it.”

Natasha shakes her head and Steve takes his eyes off the road just enough to pick up on her disappointment. “And here I thought you read the blue file. The Wakanda movement has more resources than the media gives it credit for. They have high powered allies, secret funding, and agents of their own in place. We know that they are targeting the ceremony, we just don’t know with what. We expect they will make contact with the Winter Soldier, and in that case he has to be ready to join them. No doubts. No hesitation.”

Steve feels a bubble of anger rise up until he reminds himself again that they’re _running._ He’s starting to realize that there’s an even worse frustration lurking beneath the feeling of being so goddamn helpless. The more he realizes he’s going to leave this life behind, the more he comes to the sinking realization that all his struggles will amount to nothing. Steve’s never run from _anything_ before, not even gunfire. Certainly not an oath to serve his country. The Army. The Joint Chiefs of Staff. Steve is going to turn his back on everything that used to be so goddamn important to him, only because they have no other choice.

“He’ll be ready.” Steve practically grinds his teeth on the bitter lie.

Natasha gives him the exact same look that Fury had, sensing a weakness in his response but unable to find the crack. “You okay with that, Rogers?”

“No,” Steve answers honestly, because she’d certainly spot the lie if he hadn’t. “But what am I supposed to do about it? Run?” Sarcasm might be pushing it, but Natasha surprises him when she looks sharply away.

“Starting over isn’t always terrible.” Natasha clears her throat, and her tone changes so dramatically that she sounds like a different person when she asks, “You taking Arlington?”

The question is meant to distract Steve from the barest glimpse of her genuine, human emotions, so Steve figures he’ll play along. “Yeah. Nicer drive through the park.”

“Worse traffic,” she knowingly cautions.

“Worth it.”

“Is it?” It sounds rhetorical, and she’s no longer paying attention to the inside of the car so Steve doesn’t answer. She’s clearly thinking of something other than the drive past Lincoln Memorial.

They ride in silence for a few more minutes, while Steve inches his way through traffic across the bridge. When she finally speaks again her usual attitude is back, ever amused, though Steve can’t help but feel like she’s talking to him this time, and not just another mark for her spy games. “Coulson will be Bucky’s handler. Don’t worry too much. Phil might be a spook but he’s one of the good ones.”

Well. It’s nice that she cares. “I’ll try to tell Bucky that. They’ve never even met.”

“Better that way,” she says, curling her full lips into a smile. “Trust me.”

“I do. I really shouldn’t,” he admits with a meaningful nod in her direction while he keeps his eyes on the truck in front of him. “But I do. Would you trust me?” Steve doesn’t even know why he’s asking, but suddenly he realizes he does actually care about her answer.

“I don’t trust anybody,” she says proudly. “Especially in a uniform.”

It’s Steve’s turn to snort out some rude laughter. “You might be in the wrong business,” he tells her. “We wear an awful lot of uniforms in the military.”

“You’re one of the good ones too,” she assures him with a wink. “Drop me off up here?” She slips out of the car as soon as he slows down by the curb near the memorial, and before he can check his mirrors she’s already gone. His relationship with Natasha has always baffled him, but what she decided to tell him strikes him as odd. If she doesn’t trust anyone in a uniform, what does that mean about her relationship with Director Fury? He’s been the only member of the JCS Steve’s ever seen her interact with. Does that mean Fury is also one of the good ones? By now, Steve knows he’s being a fool for trusting a spy, but he couldn’t exactly forget the role she played in finding Bucky in the Red Room.

Steve pulls into his garage, thinking back on the shocking misery of that place, of beautiful cats reduced to miserable creatures, just waiting to die. By choice, apparently. A choice that Steve is sure Bucky would make again if he was forced back into the kennels at the CFC.

Like maybe if Director Coulson had come for him, after Steve had told him to run.

* * *

“Buck!” Steve throws open Bucky’s bedroom door since he hadn’t answered any of his texts. He’s not there, contradicting the little paw print indicator on Here Kitty.

Steve flings the covers off the bed, looks into the shadows beneath it, in all the drawers, in Bucky’s closet, trying to find a discarded red collar. He comes across nothing out of the ordinary, except Bucky’s jacket is missing, and his phone is on the desk, flashing with unread text notifications.

Did he run already? Did someone come for him while Steve had been out of the house? There weren’t any signs of struggle, nothing out of place in the kitchen or living room. Someone clever, like SHIELD, would be able to take him and leave no trace. Or someone Bucky knows could have lured him away, like Stark, who Steve’s never trusted. Or the CFC could have shown up, and knowing Bucky would rather die than go back to their kennels makes Steve think…

“Bucky!” He shouts, hoping the cat will just appear out of some shadow like he always does, utterly silent, amused at Steve’s inability to hear him. “Fuck!”

He looks at the app again, the blinking dot of Bucky’s supposed location right on top of him. Steve slaps his own forehead and thinks, _shit!_

* * *

Bucky’s ears fall flat when he hears the rooftop door crash open. If Steve’s that upset then it likely means the worst for them both.

Well. It was fun while it lasted.

He’s nestled sideways into one of the crenelations of the rooftop’s thick wall, watching the city view below with his tail wrapped around his ankles. If a caravan of unmarked SUVs were to pull up — or worse, the CFC correctional van — Bucky would have spotted it and split. It’s a nice added bonus that the Here Kitty tracker is thrown off on the roof, so he doesn’t have to ditch his license until he knows for sure that his time with the captain is at an end.

“Bucky!” Steve shouts, like he’s surprised to find him here. “Thank god. I thought -” Steve is panting, probably ran up all those stairs to the roof instead of taking the elevator, which isn’t surprising since he’s panicked. He shakes his head when he walks through the slushy snow, trying to catch his breath. Building maintenance doesn’t clear the roof when it snows so much, since the tenants don’t use it in such bad weather. “What are you doing up there?”

“Just wanted to keep an eye out,” Bucky says, but it was more than just vigilance that drove him up to the roof. He tightens his arms around his knees as the captain approaches, trying to decide how to tell him.

Steve is still in his uniform, and stopped just a few feet short of the wall, one hand reaching out like he’s afraid to get any closer. “Is… is that all?”

Steve is practically radiating tension and needs to get to the point, so Bucky frowns and asks, “Do I have to run?” He at least wants a chance to tell Steve why he won’t.

Steve visibly swallows, and his smile looks forced, like he’s trying to hide something. Fear, perhaps? Just as Bucky thinks this, a gust of wind tosses a dusting of snow from the nearby stack of patio chairs, and Bucky catches Steve’s scent, confirming it. The captain’s meeting with Director Fury must have been a disaster.

“Why don’t you come down from there first?” Steve says, his face turning pink in the cold. It’s not quite an order. “We can talk about it.” Bucky stands, takes one last look down at the street, then startles back around when Steve cries out, “Don’t you dare!”

“What?” Bucky drops to the rooftop, touches down on all fours on instinct before standing upright. He shakes the water from his right hand, annoyed at having been so thoughtless as to land in a particularly deep clump of slush. Then he notices the color draining from Steve’s face.

“I thought,” Steve starts, before his voice cracks. “I thought you might not want to run. Because of what you said. The collar.”

“Steve…” His human isn’t making any sense, but Bucky can tell he’s struggling with something terrible. He closes the space between them, takes Steve’s shaking hands in his own. They are stiff and frigid, so Bucky gathers them up between his own warm fingers and blows on them. “I knew you’d find me,” he says, trying to reassure him. “Up here.”

“It’s just,” Steve gulps, looks up to the edge of the wall where Bucky had been waiting for him. “I thought you were looking for another way out.”

Ah. Is that all? Bucky tastes the hard knot the captain made of his knuckles with the very tip of his tongue, then remembers to kiss them too, because that’s the human way. “Not without you,” he breathes onto the top of Steve’s hands. That must have been the wrong thing to say because Steve gulps and throws his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, crushing him into a massive hug.

“Oh, fucking god damn it,” he sobs. “I’m fucking scared, Buck.”

Shit. Bucky never thought Steve would admit to being scared. _Ever._ “What happened?” Bucky grunts when he tries to take in a breath and somehow Steve takes that as a sign that he needs to squeeze him even tighter. The human is seconds away from getting the sharp end of his claws if he keeps this up. “What did — _unf!_ — what did the Director say?”

Steve takes a few, heaving gulps of air before he finally relaxes just enough for Bucky to squirm in his grip. “Sorry,” he snivels, loosens his desperate hug. “Sorry, Bucky, I don’t know what— Sorry. Fury said… He said we have to relocate you to the Winter Soldier barracks at Fort McNair. Apparently, they got fast tracked and some of the buildings are move-in ready. My dad told them you attacked him, and demanded I get brought up on charges of negligence,” Steve laughs, and it’s as cold and ugly as the weather. “Director Coulson intervened, probably because keeping me around is how they plan to manipulate you. Fury wants you to finish the press tour, and appear with the President at his Nobel Prize ceremony. That’s when they expect Panther to approach you, and Coulson will be your handler once you’re placed as an asset inside the Wakanda Movement.” Steve stops short, panting. It was a lot for him to get out all at once. “They expect me to force you into a muzzle whenever you’re not on military property, like any SCF.”

Bucky thinks a moment, letting Steve catch his breath. He’s still tucked in the human’s embrace, and stares at the ribbons on Steve’s chest, stacked up neatly. Each bright bar of color telling a story of the captain’s sacrifices. “Is that all?”

“It’s enough!” Steve pulls back to look Bucky in the eye. “Buck, if you move to Fort McNair I won’t be able to stay with you anymore. You’d be trapped if they come after you, and I’d have no way to know.”

“But Director Coulson plans for me to work with the Wakanda Movement after Pierce’s award ceremony.”

“Yeah, exactly! And we have no idea what he expects—”

Bucky cuts him off with a shake of his head. “He expects me to infiltrate the Wakanda Movement. To get close to Panther, right? So it sounds like Coulson is the one with all the power. More than Fury. More than General Rogers.”

“Not more than the President of the United States,” Steve bitterly reminds him. “And we don’t know what role SHIELD plays in Project Insight.” Then, because Bucky doesn’t say anything, Steve frowns. “You can’t seriously be considering it?”

Bucky picks up the note of betrayal in Steve’s tone. That reaction is something he had already considered, and decided was worth the risk, despite the twinge of guilt that spikes in his tummy at the sound. “I think we should go back downstairs,” Bucky suggests, then turns his face up to the sky. “Look,” he says, and holds up his metal hand to catch fresh, wet flakes from the sky. “It’s starting to snow again. You’re not wearing your heavy coat.”

Steve gives him a baffled look, unable to process how a little thing like pneumonia could have competing stakes with the decision they’re faced with. Bucky goes up on his toes, darts his tongue in a few, quick swipes up his cheeks to erase the salty line of tears there. That seems to have done the trick, and Steve nods, wiping his red nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah, okay,” he quietly agrees.

* * *

Bucky winds up making coffee. It’s not the first time, but it still gives Steve’s heart a little sentimental squeeze that Bucky insisted on this small way of taking care of him. After pushing the steaming cup into Steve’s aching, cold hands the cat settles down on the opposite side of the breakfast bar and leans his chin into his hands expectantly.

“Thanks,” Steve says, taking a furtive sip. It’s gritty and already cooling, since Bucky always uses far too much cream when he brews cups for Steve but he’d never say so. He savors the terrible coffee anyway.

“Can I ask you why you joined the Army?” Bucky abruptly asks and Steve’s brain has to re-engage after the terrible start to his day before he can answer.

He laughs when he remembers, but not because he enjoys the answer. “Would you believe it was to get away from my dad?” Bucky makes a face, just as confused by that as he should be, and Steve laughs again before he takes another sip. They really don’t have time for this; they should be packing or making arrangements to leave the country. Japan would be easiest since they wouldn’t need passports.

Bucky pokes Steve’s elbow with a metal finger tip to regain his attention. “Right,” he starts again. “So. I guess I never really understood why my dad went into the Army. He inherited everything, business interests and a hedge fund. He’s partial owner in the company that owns this building, for example,” Steve waves his hand in the air above him, wishing he could so easily wave away the specter of his father’s presence, looming over him ever since he had accepted a unit in his goddamn building. It had been a condition of the Pentagon job, probably so that his father could keep an eye on him. He never knew that would be so literal. “Anyway. I was eighteen. My world was small. I figured that when I joined, I’d accept an MOS that would send me far, far away from him. With his connections and my performance at West Point I could have stayed Stateside, but I figured the fight was in Russia. So that’s where I went.”

“You left the rest of your family too,” Bucky points out.

“I was an only child, so,” Steve shrugs, then bitterly adds, “and I didn’t need to stick around with my mom either.”

“Is she— like him?” Bucky’s small hesitation wrings a guilty wince out of Steve. His relationship with Sarah Rogers wasn’t great, but he never meant to give _that_ kind of impression of her.

“God, no. She was just,” Steve shakes his head. He’s never had to try and explain this before since no one knew the kind of home he grew up in. “She just left. She let him beat the crap out of both of us and then just.” That’s enough. Steve doesn’t want to talk about this. It’s not relevant. Steve takes another sip of lukewarm coffee. “Anyway. What made you want to become a sniper spotter? Your file said you applied for the role within the SCF regiment.”

Bucky’s eyebrows twitch up in surprise, and one ear makes a circle before he nods. “I did. I was angry then too. Like you. My dad died, so I went home to visit. To Freddie’s. Anyway. When I got there my mother, she acted like she didn’t even know us.”

“Us?”

Bucky hesitates, then crosses his arms. “Becca was there too. It’s not something the military usually does for SCFs, but she was trying to work out some kind of breeding deal with them. I’m not really sure.” Steve glances up from his mug, glad that whatever Freddie had been planning with Bucky and his sister hadn’t worked out. “She came all the way from Japan, and my mom refused to call her anything but Yukichan. Becca was so beautiful, Steve! I wish you could have met her…” Bucky’s eyes focus on the middle distance when he thinks of his sister — his _twin,_ Steve reminds himself — and Steve can’t tell if he loves or hates remembering her. “Well. My mother didn’t even try to scent either of us. Still, when the Army came for me it was like being taken for the first time all over again. I guess deep down I always thought I’d be licensed privately again, after my spots grew in. Maybe get paired with Becca and stent to Japan, since she was so famous. They sell snow leopard ears in Japan on little headbands for kids. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t.” Steve smiles. It’s hard not to show how he aches for the cat’s private loss.

Bucky seems to pick up on his sympathy anyway, so he coughs, embarrassed by the attention. “Anyway. My father was dead and my mother didn’t know me anymore, and my sister may as well have been on the opposite end of the earth. Maybe I blamed humans. For not getting to keep my family. Do you know what it means to be a sniper spotter?”

Steve nods. The answer seems obvious. “You get to kill people. Humans.”

“No,” Bucky shakes his head. “No, that’s not it. The sniper is the one that kills people. Gets their hands dirty. The spotter is the one that pulls the strings. Directs them. The spotter is the one in control. I thought maybe, that’s what it felt like to be human.”

Oh. Steve watches Bucky closely, then follows his gaze down to his metal hand, shining fingers flexing with a gentle whirr. His claws are still safely tucked away, but Steve can’t help but think Bucky is considering what it means to have them as part of his body, put there by human machinations without either of them knowing. Using Tony Stark in order to do so. Playing god.

“I see,” Steve says, though he also realizes he’ll _never_ understand. Not really.

“Well. Then my sniper died and I picked up that rifle. In these press interviews we keep saying it was some kind of heroic act, but it really wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking of the consequences when I shot those RNS agents, I wasn’t thinking I was risking anything when I broke the rules to save my human companions. I was just working on autopilot, trying to complete the mission.”

“I think it was your aptitude for it that got you into trouble,” Steve suggests, without thinking. “They found out you had been training with it, and that made them nervous.”

“Makes sense. They never thought—” Bucky frowns, looks down, then back at Steve. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”

“That you’d managed to prove cats with bare minimum training make better snipers than humans with decades of experience? That it scared command shitless that if the rest of us grunts found out we’d all start requesting cat snipers covering us? That it calls into question the whole anti-weaponized philosophy of our SCF units?”

“That I got in so much trouble,” Bucky mumbles, and Steve winces. Right, he never told him how he had intervened on his behalf, all those years ago. Something he’s still not sure Bucky would be happy to hear. Bucky’s not an idiot. He probably understood the political implications of picking up a weapon long before Steve put it together. Cats are technically not soldiers, and the officers that tow the party line would insist it’s for their own safety. To deem them non-combatants in altercations to protect them, like the Red Cross, or service dogs and military horses.

Yet Steve can’t think of a single war where military horses were spared from machine gun fire, or service dogs saved from landmines. Even messenger pigeons were shot out of the sky, going back far enough.

In reality, cats remain disarmed for the same reason they are licensed and gelded and muzzled: to keep them in control. A trained military regiment of cats is an intimidating force to begin with. Arm them with M-9’s or small arms, and you have a full rank of generals in Washington pissing their pants over their CFC contracts. Generals like Steve’s father.

Steve sighs. “Okay. So what changed?”

Bucky’s mouth twitches into a nervous smile that winds up looking more like a grimace. “I think. It was you.”

Steve’s eyebrows go up at that, and he has to resist the sense that he’s suddenly being accused of something awful.

“You’ve been hearing the news about the cat protests, right? There was a female found in Harlem. Her tail cropping was botched. I looked it up. They made bobtailing illegal in 1972.” Bucky stops himself, looking a bit sick. “Have you ever seen a cat with a bobbed tail? They are useless. As good as dead. Karpov cut off some Tom’s tail when the cat attacked a queen. Idiot lasted about a week.”

“A week before what?” Steve hopes Bucky will say before the CFC found him, hopes that he was sheltered in the kennel.

“Before the rest of the cats in the tenement killed him.”

Steve sets his mug down with a clunk. “You can't be serious!”

“He was already dead.” Bucky shrugs, but his ears are stiff and his tail is twitching side to side. “They just put him out of his misery. Paralyzed like that, no good to anyone.”

“So that's what you think of your fellow disabled cats?” Steve’s grateful Bucky said _they_ instead of _we_ , but he never thought Bucky could be capable of such callous disregard for his own people to begin with. “Good as dead? What about you when you lost your arm?”

“The same thing.” Bucky challenges Steve with a level stare. “Why do you think I was in the Red Room?”

Steve can practically feel the fight drain out of himself. He swallows and pushes his mug away, the coffee swirling unkindly with the guilt in his stomach. “I've always wondered…”

Bucky pulls the empty mug across the counter and takes it to the sink. He runs the tap and washes it, so that he doesn’t have to look at Steve when he explains. “I know. I, um. I appreciate that you haven’t asked, actually.” Steve watches Bucky’s tail perk up and sink back down a few times, like he was also still trying to find the courage for this conversation. “I did okay at first, when I joined the tenement. But once I was sent to DC, to the lab. Dr. Lukin gave me something, said it would make me strong again. Be able to serve. It just _burned_. I knew I’d never serve again, not missing my arm.” Bucky stretches his neck away from his metal shoulder, a little tick Steve noticed he picked up after his surgery when his implant feels stiff. “Anyway. Then you found me.”

The mug must be spotless by now, because Bucky has been scrubbing it the whole time he was trying to get out his painful story in halting, stilted words. He finally shuts off the water and leans heavily onto the edge of the sink. “You asked what changed? You gave me a purpose. You gave me this,” he flicks the little shield, hanging from his throat and makes it sing, “and I think it means more than either of us give it credit for. Not just to me but to people who have been seeing it out there. To the _cats_ seeing it out there. We can’t trust anyone, but we know _something_ is happening. We know it’s happening and we know it’s big and we know,” Bucky takes a breath, cutting off his rambling to finally look up, to meet Steve’s eyes, as an equal. “Steve, I’m scared too but I’m more scared of what’s going to happen to us next.” By ‘us’ Bucky means cats. Project Insight and the Wakanda Movement. Things happening that are much, much larger than their private situation. “...And I think you are, too. I can’t imagine you’d really want to run away after all we’ve figured out.”

Fuck, Steve thinks, already relieved. Bucky always could see right through him.

“I think in some way your father was right,” Bucky continues. It stings, but Steve gets his point. “About power coming from people like him. The humans in charge, like Director Coulson and the President. I think this is where the fight is happening, but it’s one we can’t see. Everyone we know right now is caught up in it. I think we’ve been caught up in it too, ever since Sakhalin. If we leave now, it’ll be like— ”

“Like deserting,” Steve finishes for him, agreeing with a nod. He hasn’t felt like a soldier for a long, long time, but maybe that’s because he didn’t recognize the war he was dropped in the middle of. Steve had been ready to run, to spare Bucky the pain of what was coming next, but now he sees he would have regretted that choice, forever. “Alright,” he agrees. “Okay. So we see it through. Fort McNair, the muzzle, SHIELD, Black Panther. All of it.”

Bucky nods, and that’s it.

They won’t run.

* * *

The captain sags with relief once the decision is made, and Bucky immediately feels a weight lift. If Steve hadn’t wanted to fight anymore, had insisted that Bucky run, he’s not entirely sure what he would have done. Steve isn’t someone that Bucky could imagine would walk away from a fight, but Bucky isn’t exactly sure he could walk away from Steve either.

Steve’s phone chimes, startling them both, and Bucky’s phone follows immediately after. Steve drops his on the counter between them. “Interview in half an hour,” he says. “You ready for this?”

“It doesn’t really make a difference, does it?” Bucky shrugs. “The script hasn’t changed.”

Steve’s face changes and his sag turns into a full body slump against the counter. He looks exhausted, all his adrenaline burned up by the decision to leave his life behind. He had been willing to become a fugitive, just to spare Bucky from the uncertainty that they faced. Bucky isn’t sure what to say to reassure him either. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have such a life to lose in the first place. The comfort they found in each other the previous night feels strangely far away now, like it’d be awkward to reach out and touch the human as intimately as he had dared before. “I guess I better go change,” he suggests lamely, and steps out from behind the kitchen counter.

“Wait,” Steve softly begs, and abruptly catches Bucky’s hand to stop him from passing. When Bucky looks back, Steve’s blue eyes are heavily lidded, and the tips of his ears have gone pink. “We haven’t even really had any time to - I mean. Last night. It was really amazing.”

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand in return, carefully since he had picked the metal one to cling to. “I wasn’t sure if you still wanted—”

“Yes,” Steve insists, before Bucky can finish, and Bucky feels inappropriate laughter bubble up inside him. “Yes I do!” Steve is the one that laughs first, teasing him because he can tell that Bucky is trying his goddamn hardest not to. Steve crowds into Bucky's space, his shoulders drop and he plants his forehead on Bucky’s chest before releasing a long winded sigh.

This is a strange thing to get used to, Bucky thinks. Steve showing him the top of his head like this, the vulnerable curve of his bare neck, like he’s submitting to him. Bucky’s hands hesitate in mid-air as he tries to think if he’s seen this behavior in dominant humans before, then gives up and embraces him, gently cupping the back of Steve’s neck. Bucky kisses his hair, resisting the urge to lick, but Steve nestles even further down into Bucky’s chest. “You can lick me, if you want.”

Bucky laughs, inhales the scent of the human’s scalp and sighs, content enough. “It’s gross to lick hair,” he informs him. “Gets stuck on your tongue.”

“Mm,” Steve replies. He’s wrapped his hands around Bucky’s waist, pulls him in close and hums again against his chest. “Your tongue is amazing.”

Bucky almost laughs again, but Steve’s voice has dropped about three suggestive levels down and all he can do is feel the heat rise in his neck. “Oh?”

Steve pulls away, just enough to stand as his full height again. “Do cats— I mean, have you ever. Um. Do you ever use your mouth?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

Steve barks out a laugh, and then gives him a placating smile because apparently Bucky’s judgement is written all over his face. “I mean, do you ever use your mouth,” Steve repeats, slower this time, and slips one hand down the front of Bucky’s pants, gently ghosting over the zipper of his jeans. “Here?”

Bucky shakes his head, pauses in order to actually consider it, then shakes his head again. “That’d be awful. Why would you—? No. That wouldn’t work at all.”

“Might,” Steve suggests, shrugging one shoulder then reminds him, “My mouth is different,” and the flash of heat gathering around Bucky’s neck shoots all the way up to the tips of his ears. Steve watches his reaction, and the asshole human actually smirks. He’s already pulled open the button on Bucky’s jeans, working the zipper slowly down. “I could try.”

“But wouldn’t it, _hah—okay!_ ” Bucky bites his bottom lip when Steve’s fingers pluck past the band on his underpants and the heat drops from his head down to his dick like a stone. He’s already hard, and now that Steve’s actually touching him the stimulation makes him feel slightly drunk. “Oh!”

Steve tucks both hands under his waistband, and leverages both his pants and his underwear off his hips and down. It’s an expert move, and Bucky is just rational enough to stop himself from cracking a _Star Spangled Man With a Plan_ joke. “S-sir,” he gulps instead. “Don’t forget. Might be— _unf!_ ”

Steve sinks to his knees and _licks_ him, and Bucky’s mouth drops open when his knees buckle. Suddenly, his tail stops working properly and he has to grab the edge of the kitchen counter with his metal hand for balance. His other hand goes into Steve’s hair, and clenches. Steve’s tongue is maybe the softest thing Bucky’s ever felt, warm and gentle, and now making slow, wet strokes down his dick.

“Hmm,” Steve breathes out through his nose, one hand gently massaging Bucky’s balls, the other holding him steady, by the hip. “This okay?”

“Ah, ha!” Bucky wheezes out, nodding as hard as he could to make sure Steve understands. Consent is important, every time.

So Steve goes back to tongue Bucky’s slit, explores the folds near the tip that hide his barbs with a gentle nudge. The area is slightly more sensitive than the rest of his dick, and Bucky gasps just enough for Steve to do it again. Steve isn’t shy about touching any part of him, occasionally looking up to check for permission as he touches something new and aching with each lick.

Steve’s fingers curl into the thicker hair at the base of Bucky’s dick when he decides to lick a trail down from his navel, then sits back suddenly. “Oh! You have spots here.” Steve brushes the edge of his hand through Bucky’s body hair, revealing more of the soft fur that grows in a thin layer between Bucky’s legs. Bucky circles his fingernails behind Steve’s human ear and Steve looks back up, crystal blue eyes meeting Bucky’s own.

“I have spots everywhere,” Bucky brags, feeling a flicker of pride returning through the haze of pleasure. “If you look hard enough.”

Steve raises one eyebrow and smirks again, and keeps his eyes locked on Bucky’s when he puts his _whole entire mouth_ around Bucky’s dick and sucks it down to the root. The slick satin lining of Steve’s mouth is almost unbearable, and Bucky has to bite on his own lip as hard as he can to stop himself from coming on the spot.

Is this just a thing humans do? Is fucking someone’s mouth just a normal thing they enjoy? Like the sex lube? Bucky feels dizzy, and struggles with the sudden realization that he’s _inside_ Steve’s mouth, dominating him in a confusing exchange of roles. There’s something so natural about it though, permission given by Steve’s own barely contained moans as he works his hot mouth around Bucky’s dick. He can even feel it when the tip of Steve’s tongue makes a tiny jump after pushing too hard into the barb folds, but it comes right back for more when Bucky shudders from the pleasure of the sensation.

Steve pulls off suddenly, with a pop, in order to catch his breath. “Still okay?”

“Amazing,” Bucky breathes. “This is amazing. You’re amazing.”

“Not done,” Steve insists, and unbuckles his uniform jacket, slipping a hand down the front of it to undo the buttons. “Want to sit?”

“No,” Bucky’s fingers are still threaded through his hair, so he pulls it into a fist and brings Steve’s head back where it belongs. Steve immediately takes the hint, and stretches his bright pink lips back around Bucky’s dick. It’s unbelievable, to have a human submit to him so eagerly. Unbelievable, and utterly _amazing_.

Another cat would never do this— establishing dominance one day then drop to his knees the next. Sure there are exceptions, like how Bucky made Rumlow really fight for it on Sakhalin, but the roles were always decided from the start. Deviating from them required an actual exchange of power, a shift that carried throughout the relationship. Steve isn't more or less dominant now than he was last night. He just really, really wanted to show Bucky how good it felt to have his dick sucked.

Bucky lets his head drop back, feels a slippery pulse of pleasure make its way up his back when Steve’s hand finds the base of his tail and pushes. It’s a little clumsy, like when he had yanked it to the side the night before instead of straight back, but somehow it still hits all the right nerves and Bucky gasps with the sensation of feeling opened up and swallowed down at the same time. “Steve!” He whines, and feels stupid and weak because he has no idea what he was trying to say. “Yes!” He cries out anyway, once Steve hollows out his cheeks to suck on him even harder. “That!”

“Mmmm,” Steve hums around Bucky’s dick. Bucky looks down and finds Steve’s free hand is now shoved down the front of his own pants, working hard over his own, pink erection. His face is red, flushed with heat, his lips bruised red like crushed flower petals. Steve senses the attention, and looks back up at him, eyes only halfway open through his own need. “Mmmm….”

Bucky barely has time to cry out a warning just before he comes, but Steve manages to suck him all the way through his orgasm. He doesn’t even flinch when Bucky’s barbs lock into place.

“Fuck!” Bucky shudders once the stiff rigor of his orgasm passes. “Fuck, sir. S-sorry,” Bucky gasps, trying to catch his breath. “I didn’t mean to. Don’t, don’t move! Just wait just a few more seconds. I’m sorry.” Steve’s mouth, stretched tight as it is, manages to curl on the side when he looks up at him and Bucky watches the human’s adam's apple bob when he swallows. “Oh, fuck...”

When his barbs finally release Bucky lets himself sag, and this time it’s Steve that props him up, standing to his full height and gathering him in his arms. Bucky’s shirt is open, and somewhere along the line he had lost his pants entirely.

“Was that good?” Steve asks gently, circling Bucky’s waist with one arm while he wipes his chin with the back of his hand. “My uh. My mouth was too full to ask if I should pull your tail again.”

“Amazing,” is all Bucky can think to say, and drapes his arms over Steve’s shoulders. “Did it hurt?”

Steve smacks his tongue, swallows with one eye shut to finally reveal his pain. “Yeah. You got me good, heh.” Bucky’s heart plunges, but Steve laughs at whatever face he makes. “Hurts, but also feels so, _so_ good.” Steve winks, using Bucky’s same words from the night before.

“Damn it, I love you,” Bucky confesses, still a little bit in shock about it, and he can’t help it when a purr rumbles through his chest. “Take me to bed?”

“We need to get back out for our interview,” Steve reminds him, but when he goes to move away Bucky bounces up into his arms. He wraps his legs around Steve’s middle, hooks his ankles behind his back, and lets his tail balance them out.

“Take me quickly, then,” Bucky argues, breathing right into Steve’s mouth. He gives Steve’s tongue one, teasing lick, then pulls away just far enough to tell his human that there won’t be any more until he agrees.

Steve just laughs, helpless. He already knows he’ll give Bucky whatever he wants.

They’re not running, after all, so they can take all the time they need.

* * *

**NSFW WARNING** The illustration at the end of this fic is NSFW!!!

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Bucky is getting what he wants! Incredibly artwork from [MGNemesi](http://mgnemesi.tumblr.com/post/159615103768/aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnndddd-done-o-o)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Hi everyone! I feel like it's been ages since I got a chance to post! (OVER a month! Gosh! Sorry about that...) 
> 
> So I finished my Captain America Reverse Big Bang ("Good Luck With That" guest starring the Hawkeyes and Lucky!) 
> 
> But now I'm hard at work on my Stucky Library Big Bang (Freshwater Memories! Bucky is a river spirit! I'm SUPER excited!)
> 
> And finally, I'm still getting used to my new job (this is my 3 month workaversary woo!) 
> 
> Once I finish the Stucky Library Big Bang I should be able to go back to more regular updates to Something Wild, but for now chapters will continue to release about once a month while my attention is divided by other projects and real life. I'm not super great at multi-tasking and I want to make sure not to rush through this story! 
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you all enjoy this latest chapter and this gorgeous artwork! Stop by my Tumblr any time to say hi or ask about posting progress. I love every single message I get!


	22. Housewarming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE*** There are TWO pieces of art for this chapter! Keep scrolling! 
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

Bucky had been a good sport about the muzzle all afternoon, but by the time the last reporter leaves he’s ready for it to come off. The car ride from the Pentagon press office to Fort McNair is stifling, and not because Steve has to run the defroster to keep their breath from building up against the car windows. It’s snowing again, the windshield wipers methodically swiping away the gentle white flakes, and neither of them seem to find a way to start a meaningful conversation even in the close privacy of the car. Steve’s fake smile looks particularly grim as he salutes the guards on duty after they check his ID and scan Bucky’s license.

It’s been a long day.

Three of the four reporters couldn’t seem to find any questions for Bucky himself, checking their notes with furtive glances that come to a dead stop at the hardened, plastic shell covering half his face. Eventually, each and every one of them had given up, turning to the captain for answers about the President’s plans for the Nobel Prize ceremony, and end the interview early.

Bucky doesn’t really mind being ignored, but he’s exhausted by the scent-blindness. He can barely smell anything at all trapped behind the filters in his muzzle, and it’s impossible to have a conversation when his voice is thrown back down his own throat. He can barely open his mouth when he’s muzzled as it is, and winds up speaking through his teeth, which makes him growl out his words, like an animal. It’s just not worth trying to speak at all.

Steve turns off the paved road that cuts through the base and onto the rough, gravel track that leads to the feline barracks. Bucky would have sighed if he had wanted to inhale so much of his own breath, so instead he just tries not to look too miserable as Steve parks in the dark little lot. Bucky remembers coming here the first week he had lived with Steve, remembers how confused and lost he had been, and how prepared he was to be abandoned again.

Steve unbuckles his seat belt and reaches back between the seats to retrieve his heavy coat. Bucky watches the human’s simple motions, hears the grunt he makes when he twists, sees the vein in his neck as he cranes at an awkward angle, and suddenly Bucky is terrified at the thought of separating from him, even for the night. The President’s ceremony would be in the middle of December, a whole three weeks away, and Bucky hopes he’ll be ready by then.

Just not tonight. Tonight he needs…

Steve startles when the top of Bucky’s head presses into the side of his neck, and drops his hand to Bucky’s back. “I know,” He whispers, and tilts his chin up, giving Bucky access to the underside of his jaw. Bucky whimpers and purrs at the same time at the invitation, and pulls his ears in as he pushes into the captain’s sturdy frame.

Steve isn’t a cat, and won’t hold Bucky’s scent like one, but it doesn’t matter. Just the thought of the exchange is enough to loosen the fear crawling around inside him, to feel like Bucky can actually breathe despite the muzzle. Steve’s fingers find the back of Bucky’s neck, then catch on the fasteners.

“Shh,” he whispers. “I’m getting it.” He’s gotten better at releasing the clasps and the muzzle pops off immediately. Bucky sucks up the fresh air, letting it fill in the deepest parts of his lungs as his chest expands and the scents come rushing back. The leather of the car upholstery, the oil and gas of the mechanical workings, the ever present scent of Steve himself, clinging to it all. It’s overwhelming, and Bucky's eyes immediately water as the beginnings of a sneeze burns through his sinus.

Steve catches Bucky’s face between his large, warm hands, rubbing away the angry red lines stamped into Bucky’s cheeks with his thumbs. “It’s over,” Steve says gently, with that firm set to his jaw he gets when he’s feeling protective.

“Is it?” Bucky’s voice cracks, but he isn’t too proud to show this vulnerability to Steve, looking up at the human for guidance, for comfort. Steve leans in closer, but light suddenly floods the inside of the car, bright white and blinding, and Steve flinches backward so hard he drives his elbow on the car door with a bang. Bucky glances out of the window and catches sight of the humvee, which continues down the main road without turning their way. Steve’s quick retreat is a rational one; the threat of being seen so close together in Steve’s dark car is very, very real. It still stings, though.

“Ah,” Steve breathes out, rubbing his elbow. “Damn it. Let’s uh. Let’s go inside,” Steve suggests, still peering out of the back window with a suspicious squint, as if he’s worried the humvee driver might be intentionally trying to spy. He brightens when he catches Bucky’s eye and gives him a little smile in an effort to look reassuring. “I um, got you something. A housewarming present.”

Bucky’s dorm is on the second floor, a corner unit all the way to the left, and the door only sticks a little when Steve unlocks it. Steve frowns when he looks inside, and his mouth goes sideways in disappointment, though Bucky isn’t sure why.

It’s actually not so bad.

It’s not luxurious like Steve’s massive apartment, but after Bucky takes the single step through the tiny kitchenette into the sleeping area it hits him. This miniature apartment is _his_. Not a pallette shoved into the corner of some filthy tenement, not someone’s spare room that he’s taken over, not someone else’s chair he’s marked with his own scent in order to make it familiar.

“Is this. This is for me? Alone?” Bucky presses one hand into the comforter spread out on the narrow bed. It’s soft, and so new that lines cross from one end to another, where it had been folded inside its packaging. Has Bucky ever slept with a new blanket before? It even still smells a little bit like plastic. He steps back from the bed, looks around one more time before turning to Steve, still waiting by the front door. “I don’t have to share it?”

“No, Buck,” Steve reassures him, with a soft expression Bucky can’t quite read. “All yours.”

Bucky inhales through his nose, taking in the scent of the new carpet, the fresh wood, and cool, unused metal. It’s chemical, and a little nauseating but the reassurance that he’d be the first cat to ever live here makes it worth it.

“Mine...” Bucky whispers to himself, but when he turns back to Steve to include him in his excitement his joy slips a little. Steve doesn’t look happy at all, making a distracted frown at the window in the kitchenette while he prods the seals in the corner of the glass.

“I guess I kind of remember the whole thing being a bit bigger,” he quietly admits. “At least it looks like they did a good job putting these back in.”

“It’s amazing,” Bucky insists, and Steve looks up from his window inspection with surprise at his defensive tone. “I mean. It’s mine, right? And this is my bag from the apartment.” Bucky’s large duffel is next to the bed on the floor, where Private Lorraine must have left it after Steve handed it over earlier that day. There’s also a few cardboard boxes on the little counter next to the sink, with some basic household supplies. “And those too?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says, and slumps. “Yeah, it’s pretty great actually. Did you check the closet?”

There’s a closet? Bucky turns and slides open the bypass doors, and blinks when he finds his own clothes, already hanging on the pole. Bucky feels something rise in his throat, tight and a little painful but not bad. It takes him a moment to get any words past it. “I’ve only ever lived in cat barracks before. A dozen of us in bunks. Nothing but lockers.” There’s still space for more, and even an empty shelf on top. He couldn’t imagine having enough clothes to fill a closet this big, even though he had already been shocked that all his belongings hadn’t fit into a single bag. He owns more things now than he ever has, and somehow he didn’t notice the accumulation until they had to move it all.

Bucky nods, trying to pick up where he left off. “Or, you know, that shit hole tenement in Brooklyn.” He opens the plastic accordion door next to it, expecting another closet for utilities and gasps. “There’s a _bathroom.”_

It’s not much more than a toilet, a sink and a standing shower stall, but still. It’s _Bucky’s_ toilet. _Bucky’s_ sink. _Bucky’s_ shower stall. He’ll have to remember to buy a towel. Maybe even _two_ towels.

Oh! And apparently toilet paper. Bucky’s _never_ bought toilet paper before.

“Wow,” he says out loud, because he’s so excited about the prospect of buying toilet paper that he momentarily forgets the worst thing about this private little space. He looks back at Steve, and finds his human with his hands stuffed into his slacks pockets and smiling weakly.

“I guess it’s better than the West Point dorms,” Steve says with a chuckle. He’s still hovering just out of Bucky’s personal space, alternating between watching Bucky explore the tiny apartment and staring at the floor. “Bunch of teenagers all sharing one bathroom. You had to wear sandals in the shower or the fungus would eat you alive.” Steve is still smiling, his eyes sparkling with the fondness of his memory, but Bucky knows when his human is miserable.

Bucky gets it; he won’t be going home with Steve tonight and that’s all the captain can think about. He’s not deliberately trying to step on Bucky’s happy moment, he doesn’t want to bring down the excitement that has taken them both by surprise.

Bucky isn’t sure how to comfort someone so big. He’s still trying to understand how this whole relationship is supposed to work, to understand how Steve could so gently take him to bed after having dropped so quickly to his knees.

Bucky closes the distance between them, and does his best to relax his throat when he drops his head to Steve’s chest. Forcing himself to purr isn’t easy, but he knows how much Steve loves it. The captain’s breath gives one, tiny hitch of surprise and he freezes for several beats before letting one hand rest on the back of Bucky’s neck, and the purr comes all on its own.

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers, after several moments of nothing but the rumbling from his throat filling the room. “I’ve got this.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs and kisses the top of his head. “I know. I just can’t help but feel like this means we’ve lost.”

“A battle, maybe,” Bucky reasons.

Steve kisses him again, both ears this time, then steps back with a start, looking out the window directly behind him. “Jesus. We need to be more careful. There aren’t even any blinds on these windows. There were supposed to be blinds.”

“There’s no toilet paper,” Bucky snorts. “I think I have to go to the BX for a few things anyway.”

“Oh, right.” Steve says, and brightens. He opens the cabinets, where Bucky catches sight of a few dishes already neatly stacked, and Steve pulls out a blue plastic shopping bag. “Ah, Natalie needs a raise,” he says with a laugh and passes the bag to Bucky.

It’s heavy, with several square boxes pressing sharp edges into the yellow Best Buy logo. “Is it shoes?” Bucky says, recalling the first gift Steve gave him. He meant it as a joke, to inject levity into their crumbling mood, but it comes out a little too shaky and Steve gives him one, tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Bucky opens the bag, pulls out the largest box first. “A speaker?” He turns it over in his hands, reads the label. “A bluetooth speaker?”

“You can play music from your phone on it,” Steve slides it over on the countertop, and points to the picture on the box. “Or you can put the disks in on top, here. I um, I didn't realize they don't make headphones for cat ears. I guess if they did you guys would have had your own radios with the SCFs.”

They wouldn't have. Radios would have given SCFs too much autonomy, but Bucky doesn't feel like bursting that particular bubble.

“I don’t listen to a lot of-” Bucky stops when he pulls out the small stack of CDs from in bottom of the bag. Three Neko Yukichan albums. One of them is from a live concert in London that Bucky didn’t even know existed. Slipped between the glossy, square cases is a stiff card, with a small plastic iTunes gift card glued to the front.

“The discs have vouchers to redeem the digital versions,” Steve explains. “It was actually pretty hard to find the CDs but somehow I thought you might like to have the, um, the inserts. That’s to make sure you can get anything I’ve missed,” he adds, tapping the gift card as Bucky shuffles through the collection with hands that suddenly feel clumsy and his metal fingers slip against the plastic. “I think there’s music videos and interviews too, if you want to, I don’t know… see her.”

Bucky delicately puts the CDs down, one by one, lined up on the counter so he can see them all in a row. Becca’s glossy image is on every cover, made up, wearing ruffled clothes in candy colors, extra white fur fluffed and glistening. The packages are brand new, still in the wrappers, sparkling like jewels.

Suddenly it hurts to even look at them. Steve saved his life. Steve gave him freedom and purpose and new shoes. So how is it that _this_ gift — so needless and so frivolous — cuts right through him like a knife?

“This is-” Bucky has to swallow, surprised by how small his own voice sounds, and forces himself to start again. “This is very nice. Thank you.”

It’s awkward now. Steve is still in his tiny kitchen looking like he needs some direction as to what to do with his hands.

It’s not just the intimate gift, or the excitement for Bucky’s new little home that suddenly strained the air around them. Ever since they had made the monumental decision to negotiate their way through this invisible battlefield, everything else feels a little off and a little broken, a chipped tooth on otherwise finely tuned gears, that throws the whole machine out of whack. They had just been too busy all day to take the time to admit it.

“I guess I can’t… I can’t stay,” Steve finally says.

One of them should just come out and say it and Bucky knows Steve is too polite. “This sucks,” he says. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to act around each other anymore.”

“Careful,” Steve says, his voice taking on a bitter edge. “We have to act careful.”

“Not so different from Sakhalin, then,” Bucky says, trying to remember that careful orbit they had maintained for years, doing their jobs in perfect synchronicity. Only on Sakhalin, Bucky didn’t ache quite so much to put his mouth on the captain’s neck. “It’s okay, sir. I’ll be alright on my own. I was brought up on an Army base, remember?” Steve doesn’t look convinced, so Bucky steps around his one small counter and reaches out, but stops just short of touching him. The window in his kitchen is tiny, but feels like the whole thing is one great big lens, perfectly positioned for the rest of the world to look in on them. Bucky glances away, and shrugs. “At least this time I have better clothes.”

He wasn’t really trying to make the captain laugh, but a gentle huff comes out anyway before Steve makes a small, strangled cry and crushes Bucky in a hug, kisses his cheek, then releases him all at once. It was stupid. If someone saw, it wouldn’t have mattered that the kiss had been quick. Steve’s hand weakly takes Bucky’s own, keeping it below the hips where the lines of the windows could hide the subtle contact. His thumb makes circles on the web of Bucky’s left palm, and he wonders if Steve even realizes he’s holding the metal one. “You sure you’re going to be alright? I could go with you to the BX to make sure your base charge card works properly.”

“If it doesn’t I’ll text Private Lorraine,” Bucky says. If Steve has to leave then Bucky wants it to be knowing he’ll be okay without Steve’s help. Really, he wants to prove it to himself just as badly. It feels like an entire lifetime ago that he’d had any place on a military base. “There’s active duty SCFs on this base, so I could use some space to. Well. Get to know them.” Bucky stops himself from hinting at how hard it is for him to walk into their territory smelling like a human pet. “I should, um. Introduce myself.”

Steve looks pleased by that, and probably thinks Bucky wants to make friends. He doesn’t actually have to seek them out, because eventually they’ll come looking for him. The captain doesn’t need to know that though. Isn’t that part of him being okay on his own? If the other cats on base wind up challenging him then Steve would want to get involved, and then that’s just as good as snitching, anyway.

Steve takes only one step towards the front door before he comes up short. “I just feel like I’m leaving something behind. My arm,” Steve shakes out his arm, as if he is trying to imagine that sense of loss. Funny body part to pick, given that Bucky himself could leave his own arm behind if he wanted.

What Steve is actually saying is that he doesn’t know how to walk away from something he’s used to having around all the time. Bucky understands that as well. When his military collar was first removed he couldn’t stop his one hand from rubbing the shiny spot it left behind on his throat. When Steve first gave him this new one, it itched. “You have to stop thinking of me as your cat,” Bucky says with a lopsided smile. He’s not trying to make it about that, but Steve’s eyes go wide.

“I don’t!” He does. “I’m not.” He is. “I just… I can’t even think of how-” he interrupts his indignant sputtering with a frustrated breath, and his color finally goes down. “Alright. Maybe. A little. You sure you don’t need anything else?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Bucky says, and he’s impressed with how much confidence he’s managed to gather up into his answer. “I’m the one that protects you, remember?”

So they say an awkward goodbye and Steve leaves.

Bucky carefully walks along all the paths of the empty Winter Soldier barracks in a thorough reconnaissance of the area, goes to the BX, buys toilet paper and curtains, and a whole bag full of other things he’d gotten used to at Steve’s apartment. The cashier scans his license, takes money off his card, and the volunteer bagger looks up in surprise when he gives her a cash tip.

Bucky returns to his new, strange smelling dorm, hangs curtains on all three of his windows, then sits on his bed with his new music player and listens to his sister’s sweet, sad voice sing about simple things, and regrets.

* * *

Steve shivers, pulls his extra pillow even tighter into his chest and yawns again. He never reset the thermostat for non-Bucky-friendly temperatures so naturally he’s now freezing his ass off. He considers getting up to put on socks, winds up deciding that takes far too much effort, and rolls over just long enough to grow uncomfortable in his new position. Instead he tosses, and turns, and tosses, and—

Fuck it.

Steve flings himself out of bed, claws some socks out of his drawer, then heads into the bathroom to piss, stomping all the way because apparently he’s throwing a tantrum. As soon as he thinks he might be ready to get back under the covers he feels an itch in his throat, and figuring he’s already awake, heads into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. Refreshed but still cranky, Steve halts halfway through the living room to glare at Bucky’s empty chair.

He fucking _hates_ this. He wound up working late into the evening, catching up on all the little tasks that fell behind since he kicked off the Winter Soldier campaign. The President still needs comms support on military operations since the RNS hostilities on Sakhalin seem to have gone down even though they continue to spike across Russia as the United States military numbers start to dwindle. Also, Japan had apparently opened up new trade discussions with the independent nation state of Guam while the US wasn’t looking. Work was a nice distraction while it lasted, but once Steve was in the quiet peace of his own bed his loneliness started to settle in.

Seeing Bucky’s empty chair only makes his loneliness spike in a miserable way, but instead of leaving it at that, instead of returning to bed to get some much needed sleep, Steve walks past his coffee table and drops to the floor in front of it. The tall, uncovered windows let in the sharp, white light from the moon outside, throwing stark shadows across the room. Steve swipes one hand down the armrest, gathering up the loose, grey fur stuck to the material where Bucky drapes his tail.

The cat had been downright scandalized when Steve had suggested he might be shedding. Later, Steve had caught Bucky in his own bedroom glaring at the flat, bristly brush he uses to groom his flank. He inspected the fur caught between the bristles while holding his tail down next to him on the bed, like a misbehaving child.

Steve turns his hand over, lets the small clump drift to the floor and sighs at the sweet memory as he adjusts his weight against the cushion. Steve takes another drink of water before he shoves the glass onto the coffee table, expecting to get up and finally head back to bed. Instead he just frowns into his own lap. He misses Bucky already, worse than he thought possible, to the point where even he is starting to feel a little foolish. When he rests his head on the seat cushion he catches the slight scent of graham crackers and squeezes his eyes shut against the inevitable sting of tears.

How the hell did he sleep before Bucky moved in with him? Ah, he remembers. Alcohol.

Steve glances up at the couch he spent so many rough nights on, remembering just how much. Enough to kill a full grown elephant, and yet he never suffered a hangover, never missed a shift or struggled with the lingering effects of such a depressive addiction.

So now that he hasn’t touched a drink in weeks he wants to sit on the floor and cry? _Pathetic._

“Ugh,” Steve rubs his face in the cushion and the thick fabric blots some of the moisture from his eyes. He’s an asshole for thinking he deserves to suffer more like a good little alcoholic. His father’s drinking ruined his family, does it really need to also ruin Steve’s life? Is he just that dramatic that he thinks he deserves to suffer more?

Steve relaxes against the chair that smells a little bit like Bucky, and imagines the cat’s chiming laughter, the soft press of fur beneath his fingertips, and a promise of protection, stronger than any oath he himself has ever taken.

The morning sunlight beams through his open window, prodding him into a sort of half-wakefulness after he dropped off. For a few, long moments Steve’s just disoriented enough to think that he really should head back to his actual bed and at least try to get some sleep. His brain comes back online, practically shouting in his ears that the sun couldn’t possibly be so high at six in the morning, and he scrambles upright immediately.

“Holy shit…” he swipes a hand over his face, trying to orient himself. He can hear the gentle chiming of his phone’s alarm all the way in his bedroom and finally looks over to the clock above the stove.

It’s already 1030 hours. He’s over an hour and a half late for work. “Holy _shit!”_

* * *

Steve shaves in his car, which he has _never_ done before, and is still fighting with his necktie as he trots up the escalators through the Pentagon’s main lobby. He even sweats through the ride on the elevator, just to avoid the extra time the stairs would take to reach the J5 offices. He barely looks up from his phone when he goes through layer after layer of security. Bucky had texted him at least a dozen times earlier that morning, and told him he wound up getting his own ride “into work” that morning, whatever that means.

They were due for a briefing at 1100 hours, and now Bucky isn’t answering any of Steve’s texts, and it’s all Steve can hope for that it’s because Bucky is already here. “Shit,” Steve spits out, before throwing his phone in a shielded security locker and rushing into the main office floor. He stops short inside the doors, and everyone on the floor looks up from their work at the sound his shoes make against the laminate flooring.

Bucky is sitting on Private Lorraine’s desk, ears forward in surprise. Lorraine quickly takes her hand away from Bucky’s ears, where she’d been scratching his fur, and clasps her tablet against her chest. “Good morning, Captain Rogers,” she greets with a dazzling smile, surprised at his dramatic entrance but not nearly as embarrassed as Steve would have been.

Bucky at least has the grace to turn a little pink when he meets his eyes. Steve tries to catch his breath and relax, which only makes him feel overheated after running in his heavy wool coat, and now he’s also fucking embarrassed on top of it all. It’s normal for people, especially for women, to pet cats like this; to touch their soft ears and compliment their markings. It’s not something he’s used to seeing with Bucky though, since strangers wouldn’t approach a huge SCF like him, but Lorraine knows him by now. Besides, it’s not as weird as if Steve would have done it. He hopes she had at least asked.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “Did you guys catch a ride in together?” He’s trying so hard to be nonchalant he’s almost certain he sounds awkward and out of breath. He’ll take it, as long as he doesn’t sound jealous.

Fuck he probably sounds jealous.

“Yes, sir,” Private Lorraine says, and gives a distracted glance down at her tablet. “It’s a good thing this guy texted me when he found out you had something come up last minute. I hope everything’s okay?”

“Er,” Steve’s mouth can’t even find the shape of a plausible lie, shocked as he is when he realizes that Bucky had covered for him. “Yeah. Thank you for picking him up, Private.”

Just then, Director Fury’s office door swings open. There’s twelve work stations on the main floor, most of them occupied at this time of the morning, and suddenly all the keyboards start clicking at once, their rubbernecking apparently cured by Fury’s sudden presence. “Captain,” the director snaps, just barely leaning out of his own office. “You’re five minutes late.”

“Yes, sir!” Steve says, ears burning. “Sorry sir!”

“Alright, alright,” Fury dismisses with a wave of his hand. “This isn't boot camp, Captain. Enough with the _sirs_. In my office.”

* * *

Bucky tries not to spring off the desk when Steve comes bursting into the J5 offices, and the captain looks equally clueless about how to react when he sees Bucky sitting there, waiting for him. Bucky hadn’t been sure how much longer he should’ve stalled before telling Private Lorraine that Captain Rogers was _missing_ , but now he’s glad he waited. Apparently, Steve’s night had been just as rough as Bucky’s, if his sloppy uniform has anything to say about it. He’s also missing his blue infantry cord and didn’t shower, which means he had a _very_ rough night. At least Bucky had managed to shave properly.

The ear scratches had been a nice surprise while he’d been waiting, but Steve frowns when Private Lorraine abruptly pulls her hand away. She’s the only person other than Steve that seems comfortable enough around Bucky to touch him like he’s just another pet cat and not an intimidating hunter, but when Steve’s jaw drops he realizes the rules between them are different now. The thought that Steve might be territorial makes Bucky’s face heat, and he’s glad he’s never really expected to say anything anyway as the captain makes an awkward excuse and stiffly heads over to them.

Director Fury saves them both from any fresh embarrassment, and Bucky watches Steve transform back into the soldier when all three of them get called into their briefing, his shoulders hitting the hard edges of the shape he is trained to occupy.

Bucky stands to attention just inside the Director’s door as he briefs Steve and Private Lorraine on the upcoming Nobel Prize ceremony. Apparently, there’s all kinds of things they need to prepare for the event, like the entire communication strategy for the President’s military policy, his pre-scripted ‘off the cuff’ remarks, and anything the J5 Directorate might be authorized to speak about on the latest RNS attack against the drill site for a new oil pipeline.

The new East-Siberian-to-Pacific-Ocean line had been in development in partnership with US oil interests for years, and the branch off from Skovorodino into China was not just for purposes of transporting fuel across the continent. It represents yet another landmark policy spearheaded by President Pierce for an independent Russia to open their own relations with the quiet behemoth of a country, and possibly pave the way for global trade negotiations for the first time since World War I.

Bucky doesn’t think Russia has any business making trade negotiations with China, but what does he know? Bucky’s main takeaway is that the ESPO pipeline is one of the reasons Steve has a difficult time thinking of Pierce as being anything like Zola. Apparently, the man is some kind of American hero for brokering this deal, a geopolitical genius that managed to ensure Russia’s financial independence as the United States transitions stewardship over its government back to its elected officials.

For some reason that reminds Bucky of Black Panther, and he looks up sharply when he suddenly realizes Director Fury had asked him a question. He catches Steve’s eye just long enough to realize he had been zoning out, and Steve gives him a worried little nod. “Sorry, sir?”

In an amazing act of kindness, Fury patiently repeats himself. “We’ll have security at the event, Secret Service with their own SCFs, but they aren't read in on your mission. It’s to remain classified within SHIELD and the members of the J5 in this room.”

Oh right. The Nobel Prize ceremony. Black Panther. Becoming an asset within the Wakanda Movement. The quiet war he had been drafted to fight, that Steve volunteered to follow him into. “Right. Yes, sir. Understood.”

Fury nods, satisfied by his simple answer. “Good. Now, Private Lorraine, I’ll need your help to add a few Agents of SHIELD to the roster as J5 Directorate employees. Director Coulson, Agents May, Ward, Johnson, Romanoff and her—”

“ _Grant_ Ward?” Bucky blurts out, and immediately regrets it. Director Fury first looks at Steve, as if he was the one to blame for Bucky’s bad decorum, but eventually he turns his one eye to Bucky before he nods.

“Grant Ward, formerly Captain of the United States Army, in charge of the STRIKE team that lead Operation Lemurian Star on Sakhalin. An old war buddy for you both,” he adds, with what he must have thought looked like a patient smile. If he had been a cat it would have looked like a threatening curl of his lips.

Private Lorraine asks a few questions during the brief, takes notes on her tablet, and Steve also checks a few details from the packet he had downloaded on his own laptop. It’s a pragmatic meeting, with a lot of things Bucky should be paying attention to, but he stares down at his left hand, feeling the truth itch just beneath the metal plates. He’s glad he stayed, proud that somewhere he found something like courage to match Steve’s, but now he can’t help but think this ceremony is doomed, and he himself more than anyone else with it.

“Oh, so it is.” Steve’s sudden shift in tone cuts through Bucky’s distraction, and Director Fury raises both eyebrows at him.

“I have to spend my Thanksgiving in Orlando for the Interservice/Industry Training, Simulation and Education Conference.” The Director rattles off the full name like it’s the absolutely most interesting thing to him in the _whole world._ “Want to trade places?”

Steve holds up both hands in surrender. “No, sir.”

“Alright. You know what to do. Captain, Private, enjoy your holiday.” Fury turns to his computer as both Private Lorraine and Steve get up to leave, but frowns when he looks back to consider Bucky. For a moment Bucky thinks he might be formally dismissed as well, but all the director does is huff out a small, “huh,” under his breath and continue to ignore him.

* * *

As soon as Director Fury mentions the holiday weekend coming up _tomorrow,_ Steve feels like he’s transitioned into being a full blown asshole and a headache instantly manifests behind his left eye. His mother had been trying to reach him for weeks — _months_ — and he’d been giving her only half-formed replies over text message while completely ignoring her calls. Of course she’d want to talk to him about Thanksgiving. He’d just been so busy with Bucky and their whole ridiculous life he didn’t have the bandwidth for an actual conversation.

“Do we have any interviews scheduled for today, Private?” Steve asks Lorraine, as he heads into his office, Bucky following closely behind.

“None,” she says quickly, tapping into her tablet’s calendar app, then makes a sideways nod and puts it aside. “Though you do still have to answer that Q and A that the DNC rep sent over. I doubt they’ll be looking at it until Monday though.” Lorraine’s mouth quirks into a smile when she takes her seat. “Did you forget to call your mom?”

Jesus, that’s right. Private Lorraine had forwarded him three emails that his mother had sent to his work address. After spending a healthy part of her life as a military spouse, Sarah Rogers wasn’t exactly an amateur at maneuvering military communication structures. Really, Steve’s lucky she hadn’t just showed up at the Pentagon to give him an earful in front of God and everyone. It’s not like she wouldn’t know exactly how to get her hands on a guest pass. He shivers at the thought of that nightmare.

“More like forgot it was even November,” Steve says as he tries to laugh it off. Bucky clearly senses something wrong, watching him carefully with those sharp eyes, and Steve wishes he could take the risk when he closes his office door behind them to hide in Bucky’s arms and whine.

“Thanksgiving is tomorrow?” Bucky cuts right to the chase when Steve drops his laptop back on his desk. The blinds are open, looking out on the rest of the open office. Private Lorraine’s desk is right across the walkway, even though Natalie’s long golden hair has fallen in front of her face as she concentrates on her work. “Does that mean we don’t have to do any interviews?”

Steve scrubs his face with his hands, leans his hip into his heavy desk and groans. “It means I have to go to Virginia, to my mom’s house. Probably tonight. I um. I can’t take you with me. I don’t think it’d be a good idea, anyway.”

Bucky’s ears drop. Steve is definitely an asshole. An asshole son and an asshole boyfriend _._ Boyfriend? That thought derails him completely, so when Bucky awkwardly shifts his weight and says, “okay,” Steve doesn’t know how to respond. Instead, he lets the following silence stretch on and hopes that Bucky would come to the conclusion on his own that if Steve could say more, here in the Pentagon, he would.

Eventually, Steve gives up trying to be telepathic and slumps, while Bucky relaxes slightly against the wall near the door, like he’s more comfortable falling back into his role as Steve’s vigilant protector, or just hyper aware of the distance they’re supposed to keep between them. “I’m sorry,” Steve says, because apologies are always a good place to start. “Maybe next year, after all of this is over.”

Bucky’s metal arm makes a soft whine when he crosses it over his chest and a gentle laugh sneaks out. His tail curls in an s-wave behind him and his ears give a skeptical little flutter. “You want me to meet your mother?”

“I met yours,” Steve blurts out, without thinking, and Bucky’s tail goes still when he looks up.

“Oh,” he says, then shakes his head, like he’s physically moving on from that thought. “Right. Um. Do you think… well, I mean. Maybe after all this is over, do you think I’ll get to come home?”

Steve swallows so hard he thinks he might choke. “I’m. Um. I think we can’t talk about that here.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says to the floor, showing Steve the top of his head. It’s hard to translate every signal from Bucky’s complex body language, but Steve knows that one, clear as if he had said it out loud. He’s embarrassed that he slipped up already, frustrated for letting Steve down.

Steve looks back at his computer, screen long since locked from sitting idle for so long. He wouldn't be able to remember his password at that moment if his life depended on it. “I don’t have to go.”

“Thanksgiving is an important holiday for humans,” Bucky quietly argues, even though his heart clearly isn’t in it, while his chin lifts incrementally up. “They even gave us Thanksgiving dinners, on the island. All that turkey. It was delicious, actually.”

They lapse into silence again, but this time instead of trying to silently communicate across his desk and his office and the whole fucking history between humans and felines he just wishes he could touch him. It’s Bucky that breaks the pattern. “You really should go. I’ll be fine. It’s just for a couple days, right?”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t want to leave you behind.”

“Not your cat, remember?” Bucky says, and Steve catches a slight edge to Bucky’s tone.

Maybe lately he has been a bit… clingy. Finally, Steve concedes defeat and agrees. “I guess I have a call to make. You might want to wait outside with Private Lorraine,” he suggests, picking up the receiver of his secure phone.

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to be murdered.”

* * *

Bucky is strangely torn between hiding out behind Private Lorraine’s desk or leaping to Steve’s rescue. He’s never heard such an angry human before and he’s pretty sure he’s encountered enemy combatants, RNS ready to die for their ideals of a liberated Russia, who were kinder to members of the American military than Sarah Rogers. Apparently, Steve had been avoiding her calls for three whole months.

Bucky has no idea what the social graces are for dealing with human parents, so he opts to stay where he can get ear scratches. Lorraine’s manicured nails find spots even Steve hasn’t discovered while she pets him with one hand, continuing to work with her other.

So far, Bucky’s conversations with Private Lorraine have been entirely practical. Simple questions on where he’s supposed to be and when he’s supposed to be there, how to access certain services and schedule appointments with Doctor Simmons, if he had wanted to. She seems much nicer than the other humans he’s encountered in the military, smiles a lot, and smells like buttercream and cucumbers. Eventually, Bucky starts to feel a little drowsy and stupid, and his mouth starts moving before he can stop it. “Is it common for adult humans to be disciplined so severely by their parents?”

“Hmm?” Lorraine clicks through something on her desktop, double-checking her tablet screen where she tracks all the social media metrics for the day, then looks back at her desktop, adjusting one number. “You mean Captain Rogers?”

Bucky sits hunched over his knees on the floor next to her chair, tail carefully pulled into his lap to avoid getting rolled over, so he looks up at her when she pulls her hand away. “His mother sounds very mad.”

“Oh,” Lorraine says, making a perfect round o with her lips. “You know, she really should be. I feel sorry for the big guy but believe me hon, he had it coming.”

 _Hon?_ That’s a new one. Bucky smiles when Lorraine laughs and continues, almost talking to herself as she distractedly works on her project. “Moms do so much for us and ask nothing in return. If my mom was still alive I’d call her everyday, just to thank her.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Bucky says, because he’s supposed to, but Lorraine abruptly looks away from her work to regard him, as if this sympathy surprises her. Her eyes are bright blue, a lot like Steve’s, and her mouth has an asymmetrical curl in it that adds to her curious little smile.

“What about you? Are you just as bad as the Captain?”

For a moment he’s not sure what she means, until he puts together that she’s asking about his own mother. “I don’t have a family,” Bucky answers, recovering quickly. “It’s easier for cats.”

“Ah,” she says, quickly backing down, but not in a way that suggests she believes him. “Of course. I should have known better. My sister has a cat.” That explains how she knows about the ear scratches. “She lives in Queens and caught him stealing food out of her trash cans. Brought him to the CFC and actually got a rebate for collecting a stray. She used it to purchase a license for him.” Lucky cat. “He just had to be gelded and he was home within a week.”

Bucky gulps at that. Not _so_ lucky, then. He turns and peeks over the edge of the desk when he hears the captain’s voice crack over yet another apology. Is he crying? “Pretty brutal isn’t it,” Private Lorraine says, and Bucky laughs when he sits back down.

“The captain is pretty tough,” he says, hoping it’s true. Bucky can’t remember if his mother ever disciplined him. Freddie allowed all the kits in the house to be raised together, one big family she always called it, though they all knew their parents by smell without needing to be told. Bucky’s mother used to lick him behind the ears. His father used to let Bucky get the drop on him, bite his tail, then would fall over in a heap as if he just suffered a grievous injury. Bucky wonders if he should be grateful that he only remembers the best things about living at his breeder’s, because he knows it couldn’t have all been good.

“Oh, I meant, um,” Private Lorraine pulls a smooth fall of hair behind her ear and Bucky snaps out of his old, strange memories. “For cats.”

Brutal. Is that a word that could describe his life? Humans don't all have it so easy. There are homeless, weak, sick humans. Humans get hurt or killed or lost. Maybe cats suffer, but the licensing system that forces their families apart also keeps their species from going utterly extinct. It's a trade off, and one at the expense of humans as much as cats.

Unbidden, Bucky remembers Dr. Lukin’s burning injections, of the Red Room, and shivers.

“It's getting better,” he hedges, looking back up to Private Lorraine with a careful smile. “President Pierce is committed to enhancing feline autonomy after our dedicated service to the United States Armed Forces.”

“Oh, I know he is,” Private Lorraine says with a chuckle and a wink, then leans in closer and says, just quiet enough for the two of them to hear, “I wrote that line.”

Bucky officially adds Private Lorraine to the short list of humans he likes, along with Steve, Pepper, Doctor Simmons, and the Central Park hot dog vendor.

“Uh oh,” she says, when Steve’s office door finally opens. “Looks like we have a dead man walking.”

Bucky sits up on his knees and turns around, still mostly hiding behind the desk as Steve stumbles out. His necktie is pulled open and half his hair is sticking straight up, doing its best impression of a terrified cat’s tail. “Sir, you should have called me in for backup,” Bucky says, ducking his chin just below the top of the desk and letting his ears wilt. “I’ve failed in my duties as your hunter.”

“It was an honor serving with you, sir,” Private Lorraine quickly adds, standing straight up and snapping into a full on salute. “Shall I notify your next of kin? Since, you know, you seem bad at that kind of thing.”

Steve’s mouth drops as he tries to figure out which one of them turned traitor first. “Oh, you both are just a barrel of laughs,” he finally says, leaning into his own door frame, then he turns his gaze directly at Bucky. “I bet you were able to hear every word of it, too.”

“I certainly did not,” Bucky insists, sitting up higher. A flash of boldness runs through him, even though his tone remains level. “Not even the part where she called you Stevie Grant Rogers.”

Private Lorraine bursts out laughing so suddenly she bends halfway in the middle, and has to clutch her stomach as Steve covers his face with both hands. “The cat is full of lies, Private. Don’t listen to him.”

Private Lorraine laughs even harder, because she has a sense of humor, and the captain finally cracks a smile, finding his own. “Alright, alright,” Steve sighs, rolls his eyes and Bucky laughs too. There’s something about protecting the captain’s heart that is that is so, so much more satisfying than keeping his body safe. Bucky’s done good work today, and he makes eye contact with Steve for two whole heartbeats before Private Lorraine gets ahold of herself and they have to look away from each other.

“You two done yet with all this mutiny?” Steve crosses the walkway to Private Lorraine’s desk where Bucky and her both are waiting, but freezes halfway there. Their attention collectively swings around when they hear the doors close behind a newcomer on the office floor.

“Mutiny?” A gruff voice that Bucky knows all too well says. “My son working you too hard, Natalie?” General Rogers closes the distance from the main doors to her desk in only a few strides. He has his service cap tucked smartly under his arm, and his uniform is crisp as always. His thin hair is styled, but he doesn’t look red or puffy, or reek of alcohol, like he had been when Bucky saw him last. His clear, blue eyes practically sparkle when he smiles at Private Lorraine.

“General Rogers,” she doesn’t salute, because they’re already inside the office, but she stands straight up as if she might, just to be sure. “No, sir! I mean, we’re um, only joking sir.”

“Sorry, Private, I didn’t mean to give you the business.” The general laughs with his whole body, just like Steve does, only Bucky is sure it’s a lie, a sham he puts on in public, to prove he’s a kind human being. “My dad jokes are a little rusty.”

Private Lorraine relaxes, put at ease by the general’s humble comment, and Bucky hates the man all the more for fooling such a kind human as her. General Rogers’ face is just as fake as Arnim Zola’s, and the thought makes Bucky’s tail bristle. Steve apparently has a lot of practice at this, because he manages to adopt a stiff smile while formally welcoming General Rogers to the J5 directorate, then quickly ushers him into his office. Bucky catches Steve’s eye, hoping the human reads the intent in his sharply laid back ears. The captain only gives him an explicit hand signal to hold his actions before he closes the door, trapping himself inside the small room with his father.

“I heard that General Rogers helped broker the ESPO pipeline,” Private Lorraine says, and Bucky only turns one ear to her while keeping the other on Steve’s office door. “Never would have even been possible without his negotiations with Standard Oil. He’s changed the way the military does business.”

“Hmm,” Bucky says, but clenches his teeth when the general snaps the blinds shut. This isn’t the same as when Steve had asked Bucky to wait outside so that he could get yelled at by his mother in peace. Private Lorraine is already back at work, happily ignoring the General’s conversation with the Captain, completely convinced that he’s there for a friendly visit. Convinced that he’s a decent man, even a man to be admired.

Not the sort of man that would strike his adult son, just for daring to disagree with him.

* * *

“What do you want,” Steve says, as soon as his dad shuts the door behind him. He props one hip against his desk, because he’d be damned if he was going to sit behind it like this is anything like a formal meeting. If his father wants to talk with him at work he can notify Private Lorraine ahead of time, like everyone else, so that Steve could have had fair warning and left before he showed up. His father also remains standing just behind the guest chair, and casually rocks back on his heels.

“Is that any way to talk to your old man, Steve-o?” General Rogers says, only slightly wounded when he grimaces at Steve’s tone. “All I want is to make sure you made arrangements with your mother. She’s been worried.”

Like fucking hell he is. “I already spoke with her,” Steve assures him, but the general probably knows that already. “I was going to head down tonight after I finish a Q and A for the DNC.”

General Rogers snorts, then sucks on his teeth as he casually reaches up beside him to yank on the cord that snaps the blinds closed around him. “Those spineless cowards?”

Steve makes a face, taken off guard by the sudden redirection of his father’s bad attitude. He never understood what his father’s problem is with the Dems. President Pierce is one after all, and the General _voted_ for the man. Steve refuses to expose his exhaustion with a sigh, so he growls instead. He doesn’t have time for this old argument. “Is there something I can help you with?”

General Rogers frowns, adjusts the position of his service cap clasped against the bulk of his body by his elbow, and clears his voice with a sticky, smoker’s cough. “Look, son. I know you’re mad. It’s why I came here. I’d like to apologize.” He coughs again and nods. “For the other night.”

“I. Oh...” Steve trails off because he doesn’t know what to say. Something he thought he’d given up on a long, long time ago twists in his chest, and suddenly Joseph Rogers doesn’t look so terrifying anymore.

Should he accept this strange, unexpected apology? His father _backhanded_ him, for fuck’s sake. His father was also drunk at the time, but when has that ever been an excuse? It’s not like Steve hasn’t made his share of mistakes while he was drunk. Mistakes his father had been the one to bail him out of.

Objectively, Steve knows this could be a trap. Objectively, he knows that his father has done this before, showing up sober and repentant after he let a few too many drunken fists fly. Steve knows his father’s tactics by now, understands the strategy. Knowing and believing are, disappointingly, two different things. There’s no amount of objectivity in the world that could convince the little burning flame of hope in Steve’s chest. Maybe this time Joseph Rogers has finally succumbed to the reality that he’s just a broken old man who doesn’t know how to speak to his son, a broken old man who might actually love him, in his own way.

Steve glances back at the general, still not sure what to say. “Thank you, I guess. For not telling Fury about. The other thing.”

It’s awkward, but also terrible that it really could have been so much worse for himself and Bucky both if his father told Fury what he knew about the nature of their relationship. What he likely had recorded evidence of. Steve hates how much he owes his father for it, keeping this secret for them, like it’s something they should be ashamed of.

“Well,” the general starts with a small laugh. “Course not. Wouldn't do anyone any good if my own son got locked up for animal abuse.”

Steve stands upright, furious, and kicks aside his guest chair. “He’s _not_ an animal,” he hisses, enraged, even though he knows that’s exactly the sort of reaction his father was looking for.

The general gives him a dirty smile, not backing down an inch. “Do you tell yourself that when he sits in your lap and you pet him like a dog?”

“Did you tell yourself that when you took me outside and beat me like one?”

The general shoots him a look, but it came out so suddenly that Steve has no way of taking it back. Instead, he and his father just stare one another down, now only inches apart. Steve won’t let himself be bullied. Not here, in his own office at the Pentagon, a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and a _fucking_ adult. Then General Rogers raises his fist and Steve flinches anyway, slamming into the desk behind him so hard that it skitters sideways by a few inches. His nameplate falls, and hits the floor with a dull thud.

The general doesn’t move, doesn’t smile, doesn’t look like he’s done much of anything. He doesn’t even really have to. “Say something smart again, son.”

Steve gulps down the retort that instantly sprang to the front of his mouth, and his eyes dart to his father’s rank pins. If he hits a three star general here, at the _Pentagon_ , he would go to jail for sure.

“That's what I thought.” The general gives a patient little sigh, tugs on the hem of his jacket and sets his service cap on his head. His motions are firm, deliberate, as if he is reminding Steve what it means to be a real soldier. “It's alright Steven. We just needed to sort a few things out. I’m glad you appreciate what I’ve done for you.”

Foolish bravery spikes in Steve’s chest, and before his father reaches the door he promises him through his teeth, “One day we won't have these uniforms between us.”

Joseph Rogers just laughs, and turns his charming smile back on, as if it was his default expression. “I never needed the uniform to teach my son a lesson. See you at dinner.”

* * *

Instead of going back to relaxing against the side of Private Lorraine’s desk, learning how to let Steve out of his sight long enough to enjoy Natalie’s physical kindness, Bucky stalks outside of Steve’s door, pacing and anxious. He can hear almost every word between Steve and his father, can easily detect the General’s threat as well as Steve’s fury when the topic swings to their relationship. It’s sweet of Steve to defend him, but pointless. General Rogers is not the sort of human that can see cats as anything other than a commodity, probably just another way to ‘change how the military does business.’

When he hears Steve back into the desk, hears that distinctive clang of the brass nameplate strike the laminate floor, Buck tenses and Private Lorraine looks up. “Everything okay, hon?”

Bucky swallows and nods, not taking his eyes off the door. She couldn’t hear the exchange, the doors were soundproofed enough for that, and with the blinds drawn she’d have no idea what was happening inside. Instead, she keeps tapping away between all her devices, a keyboard for her desktop computer, and her ever-present tablet. He remains wholly focused on the Captain’s office door, waiting for it to open, or a sign for him to go inside. He knows he shouldn’t get involved. As defensive as he is, he does have perspective. They both already got enough trouble as it is, just because he did his job, and defended the captain when he had first been attacked by this strange, bitter relation.

Finally, the general swings the door open and Bucky freezes, just in front of him. Unlike Steve, Bucky doesn’t flinch when the general’s hand shoots out near his face. General Rogers takes a firm hold of Bucky’s collar, and pulls just hard enough to drag Bucky’s head down, forcing him to look up as the human inspects his license tag.

“Dad!” Steve blurts out, and General Rogers waves a dismissive hand back at his son.

“That’s a handsome tag you got there, buddy,” he says with a jovial smile, looking Bucky right in the eye before he releases his grip. “Keep out of trouble.”

Bucky does flinch when General Rogers pats him on the head, crushing one of his ears while ruffling his hair with a meaty fist. To anyone else, it would look like a playful hair tousling, a familiar touch between a keeper and a pet, but the general manages to twist his ear with the motion, pinching it roughly between his fingers. Bucky takes an unsteady step back after the general walks away and blinks while his eyes water from the sting. That fucking _hurt._

“Private, always good to see you,” the general says, and Lorraine jumps up and smiles, waving goodbye.

“Well,” Steve starts. Bucky can hear his breathing is uneven, but he’s putting a brave face on it. “Now that I’ve been yelled at by both parents, I think I might just head home for today. I’ll, uh, answer that Q and A from home, actually. Bucky, would you mind helping me with it? I could take you back to Fort McNair after.”

Bucky feels like he has to unlock his jaw before he can answer, before he can go along with the captain’s ploy. It’s hard not to go to him, not even ask if he’s okay after dealing with his father’s spiteful threats. “Yes, sir,” he manages to say. “Yes, sir, that’s fine. When did you want to head out?”

Steve looks relieved, but also disoriented, like he can’t quite tell what he’s supposed to say next. He’s likely having just as hard a time keeping everything in, and his eyes keep going to Bucky’s folded ear. “Just let me grab my. Um. My…”

“Your coat, sir?” Bucky suggests, and reaches up to rub at the sore spot on his skull, to show Steve he’s fine. The ear doesn’t want to open back up, but at least he isn’t squinting through the pain anymore. “And your hat.”

“Right,” Steve says and gives Bucky a grateful nod for the prompt before he vanishes inside his office to collect his things.

Bucky follows him, but only stays in Steve’s office long enough to flick open the blinds. He knows Steve hates it when they shut out the rest of the world, hates that his office has no exterior windows, for ‘security’ purposes. Steve hates this office on a whole, but the blinds are something that makes the human sweat, just like elevators, but he’s just distracted enough to not take the time to re-open them himself.

“Let’s get out of here,” Steve says, under his breath, as he heads past Bucky with an armload of things. “Private, please feel free to head home now.”

“Sir?”

Steve stops just long enough to give her an actual genuine smile. “It’s the day before Thanksgiving,” he explains. “No need to stay late. I’ll be taking off as soon as I wrap up this Q and A. I’m sure your sister wouldn’t mind if you got to her house a bit early.”

Lorraine gives him a surprised blink or two before she glances at Bucky and laughs. “Yes, sir! Enjoy your Thanksgiving!”

* * *

“That _fucking_ son of a bitch,” Steve snarls, as soon as they pass the last security gate out of the Pentagon grounds. He turns onto the onramp for the 14th Street Bridge, and accelerates with a lead foot to get them as far away from that fucking place as fast as possible. “Fuck!”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky sighs beside him in agreement, and Steve catches him rubbing his ear.

“Are you going to be okay? Did he hurt you?” Steve wants to rip off his own steering wheel and shove it down his father’s stupid throat. “I’m so fucking sorry. He had no right! I should have just— Should have— _Fuck!”_

Bucky hums, and almost sounds proud when he says, “Not the first time I’ve been disciplined. It’s nothing. Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, of course. Just really, really _fucking_ pissed.”

“What else is new,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes and for some reason the sarcasm strikes Steve as judgemental, like Bucky is calling Steve unreasonable for being disgusted by his father’s behavior.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Steve snaps, and Bucky sits up at the sharpness of his tone.

“I… sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to insult you,” Bucky says and Steve quickly looks over at him after he changes lanes. It’s still early, and the traffic on the bridge is light, but he’d still prefer to be on the far left so he can easily make his exit, and go faster than the rest of the cars on the bridge because _fuck those slow mother fuckers._

Bucky chews on his bottom lip, but doesn’t go so far as to duck his head. Instead, he continues. “It’s just, your father does this on purpose, making you angry, and I think you know he’s doing it on purpose. I think it’s a lot like being dominated, when you don’t want to be. Only, when you know he’s doing it, you get angry anyway, just like he wants you to, and he uses it against you. Maybe you’re actually mad about something else?”

 _What the fucking nerve?_ Steve’s grip tightens on his steering wheel as indignation ratchets up his back. The muscle in his jaw spasms with anger and frustration and god _fucking_ damn it if Bucky isn’t one hundred percent fucking _right_.

Steve releases an angry breath, and the tension leaks from his shoulders so quickly his arms tingle, like even his circulation had seized up with fury. “Yeah,” he finally admits, exhaling again. “I know. Sorry, Buck. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just. I don’t know what I should do about it, you know? My whole life he’s been...” Steve shakes his head. “He makes me feel so small. I’m angry about that but really? What really makes me sick? I couldn’t stop him from hurting you. I just stood there and watched. Just like before…” Steve trails off and has to take a moment to focus on the road while Bucky patiently waits. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“You should let me bite him,” Bucky insists through a huge grin, and Steve’s own laugh takes him by surprise. “Right on the neck. Grrr!”

Steve’s whole body shakes and he laughs even harder, and he slows down a little, enough so that he doesn’t become a hazard as he wipes tears from his eyes. He really doesn’t deserve Bucky. That cat is a treasure.

* * *

They head home and order far more food than even Bucky can comfortably eat. After finishing what they can, Bucky curls into a tight ball next to Steve on the sofa while he fills out his last work project. Steve types one-handed, while using the other to delicately trace the line of fur that covers the stiff shell of Bucky’s hurt ear, right where it meets his skull. The cartilage is strong, but sensitive, and Bucky appreciates the gentle massage after the general’s rough tug. It comes at a price though, and Steve prods Bucky to help him answer some of the questions, stuff about how things might have changed for the SCFs after President Pierce had been elected and one ridiculous hypothetical about what party felines would vote for if they had the right. Bucky sleepily answers, growing more and more bored.

Eventually, Bucky succeeds in displacing the laptop from Steve’s warm thighs. Steve has to resort to propping up his laptop on the sofa’s plush armrest, typing up the last of his emails at an awkward angle while Bucky happily purrs in his lap. It takes just over an hour before Steve finally shuts down his computer and stretches, but they remain like that after he relaxes, not even bothering to speak. Steve pushes his fingers through Bucky’s hair, circles his ears, digs his nails along his jaw, and Bucky’s fingers curl and flex compulsively into Steve’s soft tee shirt as he purrs.

It’s stupid to waste their afternoon like this, but somehow the little slice of stolen time feels precious enough to let it drag on. Steve’s hand eventually stills when he drops off into a catnap of his own and Bucky quickly follows.

The moment really shouldn’t have had to end, but eventually it does anyway, with Steve coming awake so suddenly he has a moment of panic that he’s late for work. When he sees Bucky his expression clears, and his warm, happy smile returns. “Damn it,” he says, checking the time on his phone, and drops his hands behind his head in a little stretch that pushes Bucky up with his hips before he slumps back over. “I’ve wasted our whole afternoon together. I need to get you back to Fort McNair and head over to my mom’s.”

Bucky rolls over to his stomach before he pushes his own hips up, letting his stretch travel all the way up to the tip of his tail while he yawns. “You need to _shower_ ,” he says. “Then take me back to Fort McNair, and _then_ head over to your mom’s.”

Steve blinks, then raises a very cynical eyebrow. “Are you telling me I smell?”

Bucky plops back down and hums before he dryly says, “I’m telling you that I can tell you didn’t take a shower this morning.”

Steve laughs so hard that Bucky bounces off his lap to avoid the earthquake, then grumpily climbs into the green chair when Steve finally stands, extends to his full height, stretching one more time. Bucky watches Steve’s easy movements, his relaxed shoulders, and the way he rolls the kink out of his neck, feeling a bit of pride that the few hours of physical contact seems to have erased all that tension from earlier in the day.

Steve notices Bucky watching him and his little human ears turn pink. “You um. You want to join me?”

Bucky uncurls just enough to rub his ears on the back of the chair. “What for?” He freezes, realizing abruptly Steve is inviting him to have sex. Bucky wants to leap off the chair to the captain’s side, but stops himself and gives the captain a defiant grin. “I actually managed to take a shower this morning.”

Steve clicks his tongue, and murmurs “jerk,” under his breath while he sulks, but Bucky knows he loves it. Besides, Steve still needs to bring Bucky back to Fort McNair, and he didn’t put up all those curtains for nothing.

* * *

 

Neko Yukichan CD cover by [Hopeless--geek](http://hopeless--geek.tumblr.com/post/163303474668/this-is-a-commision-for-resinonao3s-fic)! Steve and Bucky listening to her together by [DeanDraws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/post/161030232515/steve-and-leopardbucky-by-deangrayson-commission)!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! Another long month between updates! Sorry about that everyone! (Also sorry that there didn't wind up being anything terribly saucy in this chapter, though there's definitely more to come!) 
> 
> I am hard at work going through a beta edit round of my Stucky Library Big Bang pieces (I hope everyone enjoys it!). My new day job is still keeping me terribly busy as well, so I don't think this pace is going to change any time soon. Please feel free to stop by Tumblr any time to check in on how progress is going with this fic. I love each and every ask I get and I really am excited to make new friends :)


	23. Unexpected Gratitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE*** The artwork at the end of this chapter is NSFW!
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

It was already dark by the time Steve showered, gets dressed (again) and packs his overnight bag. His mother lives in Virginia, only thirty minutes away, but time with family always runs late, and staying the night was a good opportunity to patch things up with his mom after ignoring her calls for so long. He’s actually looking forward to catching up with aunts, uncles, and all the cousins as they share what exciting milestones they’ve hit over the past year. Steve makes sure to grab an extra scarf for Bucky, because he’s worried the cat isn’t treating the DC winters seriously enough, and they both head out, bundled up for the snow.

Bucky doesn’t hold back on their way down to the car, startling more than a few laughs out of him as he slithers around Steve’s ankles with a grin, then dashes forward before Steve can grab ahold of him, staying more or less on point along the way. By the time they get to the sub-level garage, Steve has figured out that he’s doing it on purpose, teasing him with a few extra swishes of his tail and toothy smiles, but he enjoys playing along, flirting in their own way, like friends and fellow soldiers.

It’s strange to think that in just three weeks, this might all be different. It’s already changing, Steve thinks, when he straps on Bucky’s muzzle as gently as he can manage.

“About what you said earlier,” Steve starts, after the two had lapsed into a comfortable silence, the car trapped in the tail end of rush hour traffic. “About coming home after all this is over?”

Bucky gives him a curious look over his muzzle, but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t usually like to talk with it on, hence the silence in the car.

“I don't know what’s going to happen when this is over,” Steve confesses. “I won't bullshit you though. Getting your license from the military will be next to impossible. My father owns my apartment building and I’m sure he’s never going to make it easy for us. This thing with Pierce and whatever Hydra is…” Steve swallows when he suddenly feels like he’s losing a fight, and has to take a breath before he can continue. “It might be really hard for you to come home.”

“It will be fine,” Bucky says, his voice coming out dull behind the mask. “We’ll be together, even if I’m not home.”

Steve finally smiles, hurting all the way through it. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Funny. It never even really felt like home to me, until you got there.”

Bucky doesn’t look surprised by that. Instead he just nods, like he knows exactly what Steve means, and leans back into the headrest until they finally reach the base.

* * *

Steve’s no-bullshit answer gives Bucky something to think about on the way to Fort McNair. Even after they get through the security gate, after his tag is scanned and Steve releases the muzzle’s pinching straps, he finds it hard to get back into the spirit they had captured earlier. He already knew it won’t be easy for them, but he also never really considered making plans that far in the future, despite being the one dumb enough to ask the question in the first place.

It’d been a long time since he had to think of much more than where his next meal would come from, or if another cat would steal all his things while Karpov sent him out on one of his ‘errands.’ Bucky quickly became a favorite at the tenement despite his missing arm, because he had been one of the few cats fluent in Russian. He didn't need two arms to be a lookout, and quickly figured out how to handle a sniper rifle with only one. Of course, becoming Karpov’s personal _Котенок_ didn’t exactly increase his life expectancy as a feral, and Bucky quickly learned to take things day by day. It seems like his life had always been occupying some kind of war zone, weather it was on Sakhalin or in Brooklyn.

At that thought Bucky touches his license, and a bit of hope suddenly rekindles. He meant what he said earlier, through the thick material covering his mouth. There isn’t much that could keep him away from Steve now, and even if they find themselves separated by laws or General Rogers or Black Panther, they will still always be together. Their relationship seems to fall somewhere in between the odd cat couple, allowed to mate for life and the more common _human_ couple, married until death. It sounds bleak when he plays it out in his head like this, but it’s a comfort.

The car comes to a slow stop in the dark lot outside of the Winter Soldier housing, and Bucky catches dark shapes bolting out of the path cut from Steve’s headlights. He glances over, hoping Steve didn’t see them, and catches the human peering over his steering wheel with a frown, not so sure himself. There’s a powdery layer of snow all around the buildings on this part of the base, and that glistening backdrop is likely the only reason he had caught sight of them at all with his terrible night vision.

Still, the captain doesn’t make another move, so Bucky thinks maybe he’ll just let it go. He unbuckles from his seat, and opens the door when Steve’s hand shoots out protectively over his chest, blocking him.

“Hold up,” Steve warns. “There’s something out there.” He carefully turns off the car’s engine, letting the lights stay on as he continues to search.

“It’s okay,” Bucky confesses. The captain won’t let this go if he thinks there’s trouble, so he figures he may as well cough it up. “They’re here for me.”

Steve snaps a look over to him, eyes going wide, then turns his gaze back out again, even more alert. “They?”

“The SCFs on base,” Bucky explains. Maybe he’s surprised they had shown up on his doorstep quite so soon, but Bucky had been expecting this. He’s still not entirely sure how they’ll react, smelling like he does, with as big as he is, but it’s not a meeting he could have avoided for long. “Maybe they got a break because of the holiday.”

Steve looks at Bucky, squints through his windshield, then back to Bucky again. “I’ll come with you.”

“I’ll be fine, sir,” Bucky tells him, tracking the movements of all four shadows hovering just out of Steve’s field of view. Bucky can make out heir profiles, catches the glowing green reflection in their eyes while they wait for him. Steve opens his mouth to argue but Bucky cuts him off with a warning, “And they can hear us.”

Steve leans back with a noncommittal hum as he visibly reassess the situation. Then, trying not to sound too protective, he says again, “I should go with you, I think.” It must be hard for him to achieve both an authoritative tone that also leaves Bucky’s options open ended. If he just gave Bucky an order, it would have been conspicuous for Bucky to flatly decline. He’s trying his best, knowing the others are listening, to offer Bucky help.

“Thank you, captain. But I’ll be fine.” Bucky’s firm tone makes the muscle on the side of Steve’s jaw flex. It might have been a mistake to have told Steve about how smelling like a human can make things difficult for a cat like him, and how that can lead to being challenged by others. It’s a strong reminder of why cats keep their business from humans for a reason. “It really isn’t necessary.”

Steve struggles for a few moments before he switches gears, and puts his hands back on the steering wheel as he takes a few more precious seconds to consider what direction to take this half-argument. He sounds disappointed when he finally speaks again. “I guess I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll be back on Friday afternoon, but we won’t have to go back to work until Monday. Text myself or Private Lorraine if you have any issues.”

Bucky gives a passive nod at Steve’s formal instructions, but on the inside berates himself. He put off an offer for sex just to tease his human lover, and now he can’t even taste Steve’s neck before he leaves for two days. Fucking awful planning, on his part. “Understood, sir.” Bucky pushes open the car door, but Steve lightly tugs on the back of his jacket to subtly grab his attention. When Bucky turns around he finds Steve’s phone sitting on the seat, screen lit up.

 _I love you,_ is typed out on the messenger app.

Bucky winks at him, smiles, and quickly leaves the car to face the SCFs he’ll be sharing territory with for the immediate future.

* * *

Steve drives down the main road until he gets to another turn off, and immediately texts Bucky.

_> Still on base. Let me know asap if you need backup. Holding position til sitrep._

Steve sends the message and holds his breath, stares at his phone screen, and waits for an answer. He might be making things worse, buzzing Bucky’s phone when he’s clearly off to face the other cats in some kind of… cat dominance ritual.

“Fuck…” Steve bites his lip as his imagination runs entirely too wild with that thought. It seems ridiculous that cats are everywhere, and yet people know so very little about them, like they’re invisible. Steve is suddenly reminded about how there is no section in Arlington for fallen feline SCFs, how even on Sakhalin the KIA felines were never considered as a meaningful part of any casualty list, or sent home to American soil in a fabric draped box. Until the Winter Soldier program, most people had no idea what SCFs did overseas, and were probably informed mostly by sitcoms like _Feline-1-1._

Of course, most of what Bucky’s learned civilian human life he’s picked up from watching television too. It’s not like there are any shows about _real_ cats, other than the odd dry documentary or two about the Great Die Off, the licensing program to save them, and the landmark trade agreement with Japan that solidified them as allies in the next hundred years of geopolitics. Cat history pretty much always boils down to a footnote in otherwise human history, and now that Steve finds himself so lost to understand the nuances of Bucky’s life he thinks that’s a pointless oversight.

Just as Steve’s anxiety was starting to reach peak levels of _fuck this_ , his phone buzzes in his hand.

_> I’m fine. Just cat stuff. Get to your mom’s house before she kills you. Again._

Steve frowns at the response, wondering how Bucky even found such sassy cat face emoji when his phone vibrates, again.

_> Thank you for letting me do this _

_> On my own_

“Damn it,” Steve complains to himself and tosses his phone on the still warm passenger’s seat in defeat. He’ll just have to trust Bucky about this one. It’s not really his business to get in the middle of them anyway. The last time he did, on Sakhalin, Bucky certainly didn’t thank him for it. He heads out, hating more than ever that he has to leave Bucky behind.

Even well after rush hour, Thanksgiving traffic is so bad that the drive to Great Falls takes nearly two _fucking_ hours. Steve fiddles with his Pandora stations in the stop-and-go, texts back and forth with Sam a bit to catch up in a pathetic, unsocial sort of way, and eventually sulks over the fact that Bucky hasn’t texted him back with a sitrep.

The snow doesn’t help things any, coming down like sticky cotton, and it builds up almost faster than his wipers can toss away. Steve passes two accidents on the Parkway, and three more along the Pike that gum things up even more than the usual holiday traffic. At least at that slow speed he has plenty of time to agonize over leaving Bucky with those cats.

Bucky has tried to explain it on multiple occasions, the fact that he’s a large, naturally dominant hunter and smells like a housecat, but Steve still can’t wrap his head around why other cats would attack him for that. Is it because it makes Bucky look weak? Does it give a smaller cat, who would naturally be submissive to Bucky, a shot at being dominant?

Is it like prison rules? Attack at the largest guy in the room and win everyone’s respect thereafter?

Steve scoffs at his imagination getting so far out of control again, and figures he’ll just have to ask Bucky yet again to explain it to him. He’ll get there, eventually.

Despite his best efforts, Steve can’t really relax until he’s leaning out of his car window, punching in the code to the house’s front gate as quickly as he can manage before his teeth started to chatter. The gate’s old motor sighs and mutters as it wakes up, and the wrought iron bars swing open in a wide arch.

Steve loves Brooklyn, loved growing up there around the noise and the crowds. His father was rich and important but there were a lot of rich, important people in New York and on the street Steve was just another skinny kid that went to school, got bullied, ate too many hot dogs and barfed at his first baseball game. No one knew him, no one care who his dad was, and not even his teachers noticed how he hid his bruises under baggy clothes and his aches with bad posture. Sometimes, the anonymity made it seem like the pain just wasn’t there, either.

Sometimes, being invisible just wasn’t enough. That’s why the Great Falls house that his mother claimed in the divorce is a vacation home in more ways than one. First of all, as much as Steve loves the city, the sprawling, rocky falls that the unincorporated land gets its name from are _breathtaking_. Really though, the fact that his father almost never visited this house, even when his parents had been married, is the reason Steve sighs with relief the moment he turns off his engine in that familiar driveway. The general had always been too busy and too important for things like Thanksgiving, and that never really changed.

Steve stretches in his seat to work out the kinks from driving, then checks his phone one last time before he finally tucks it away. The snowfall is even thicker here but calmer, and it settles without wind around his shoulders even as he quickly grabs his overnight bag from the back seat and trots up to the front door. There’s a few cars parked in the driveway already — probably his aunts visiting from Brooklyn because he couldn’t imagine his cousins getting in so early — so Steve kicks through the fresh snow to the front door and rings the doorbell. He has a key, but it has felt weird to walk through this door without knocking, ever since he left for school.

There’s a commotion inside, a dog barked — definitely his aunt’s German Shepherd. The door swings open and Steve blinks, frozen in shock, before he laughs at the irony.

“Glad you made it,” General Rogers says, holding out his hand to take Steve’s bag. The smell of spiced pumpkin pie, Steve’s favorite, wafts out of the house around his father’s huge frame. Joseph’s wearing a soft green sweater over a plaid shirt, and loose jeans over thick, sheepskin slippers and smiles warmly when Steve helplessly hands the bag over. “Your mom has you set up in the office. Hope you don’t mind,” he adds, with a small chuckle as he gives Steve a fatherly pat on the shoulder to welcome him inside. “I took your old room.”

* * *

Bucky shivers as the wind tugs at Steve’s red scarf and he kicks through the powdery snow at an even pace. His metal hand feels stiff in this weather, so he rhythmically clenches it in his jacket pocket to keep it from sticking as he makes his way along the side of the building. Steve’s headlights finally pull back and turn away, leaving him alone, and his eyes adjust comfortably to the leveled darkness.

“Alright,” Bucky says, kicking off the conversation as he leans against the wall to wait. “What do you want?”

Sure enough, the others round the corner, and Bucky is struck with surprise at how impossibly _young_ they all look. Fort McNair is a seed camp for SCFs, where young ones go right out of school to be trained for deployment to whatever theater they are assigned. The bulk of America’s military forces tour throughout Russia — or at least they did, before the President’s new peace — but the military deploys forces all over the world. Wherever there are soldiers, there are trained and battle-ready SCFs.

These cats are clearly well-trained, Bucky determines, as they carefully reveal themselves in a cross formation, settling just a few feet away. He’s not so sure about the battle-readiness part, after he catches their nervously twitching tails and rotating ears.

One cat, not the biggest, is the first to speak. “Are you the one they call the Winter Soldier?”

Strange, that he has an accent. Bucky carefully looks all of them over before he answers, not sure what to make of that. The one that spoke was probably the youngest. Slim, with platinum silver hair and pale gray fur. He’s fair skinned, and his ears taper into sharp, black points. The others seem more interested in Bucky’s reaction, rather than following the slim cat’s lead. “That’s what they call me,” he says. “But my name is Bucky.”

“I’m Pietro!” The slim cat announces, his tail swinging back and forth as the ears on all the rest straighten up in interest. He turns to the others. “See! I told you!”

“I’m Tripp,” another one of them immediately says, raising his hand, like he’s in class, then points roughly in the direction of Bucky’s shoulder. “You really got a fancy Stark arm?”

“Can we see it?” Pietro blurts out, his pale eyes as big as dinner plates.

“Yo,” Tripp interrupts and Pietro’s ears immediately fall back in submission when he looks over his shoulder at the other cat. Tripp doesn’t have to say more, because the way he turns his roan ears out is enough of an admonishment for the over-eager teenager. “Alright. Bucky. We just had to see for ourselves. Lots of rumors that the President is going to take care of us, after we’re done. Hard to believe it’s true.”

One of the others, who still hasn’t spoken, sniffs loudly and pointedly turns his head away. Bucky watches that one carefully, since he is clearly the largest of the group, but so far has had the most passive body language out of all of them. Like Tripp, he has dark skin and plain fur, but holds himself back, with his thick tail curled protectively between his ankles.

“Aw, come on, Mac,” Tripp says, and drifts into Bucky’s private space. His ears are open, his tail moving in a friendly sway. “Proof is staring you right in the face! The president of America’s got our backs!”

“He doesn’t,” Bucky cautions, and the cats all look at him, startled. Even Tripp in all his confident swagger takes a cautious step away. Bucky clenches his metal hand again, and inhales Steve’s scent from the red scarf around his neck. “President Pierce is a liar. I wouldn’t trust anything he promises.”

For a while there are no more words, as they silently gauge Bucky’s response, tails and ears cycling through caution, frustration and doubt. Finally, the last cat speaks up. He’s quieter than the others, tiny, especially for an SCF, with hair the color of dishwater, and Bucky thinks he’s seen this cat somewhere before. “Then who do you let get so close to you,” the little runt asks him, sticking out his chin in a way that reminds Bucky painfully of Steve fucking Rogers. “To make you smell so domesticated?”

Bucky’s ears cut back, his tail snaps out behind him and he takes one step forward so aggressively that Tripp’s fangs flash and Pietro drops down into a defensive crouch. Mac doesn’t dare to move from where he’s been the entire time, just on the edge of the building, like he’s only there to watch. Still, the small cat doesn’t back down. Bucky could flatten this little punk in a heartbeat, could probably lift him with one hand if he wanted, and not even worry about using his mechanical one. Really, a cat Bucky’s size has no business pushing around this kitten, but it’s amazing he doesn’t really seem to know it. Unless of course he does know it, and that’s what gives him such a stubborn bravery.

“What’s your name?” Bucky flatly asks.

“Brooklyn,” the runt informs him, equally as dry and not giving up an inch.

Bucky blinks at that, and laughs. He has been so incredibly off base every time he’d imagined what Steve Rogers would be like as a cat — always big and dominating in his mind’s eye, and far too stubborn, while this tiny, ballsy smartass is far closer to the mark. He laughs again, steps back, and lets his tail relax.

“Alright Brooklyn,” he starts, and the others perk up at the sudden switch in his tone. “Have you ever played baseball before?”

Tripp gives a surprised glance back at Brooklyn, then looks to Mac, who nods with a huge, I-told-you-so grin on his face. Bucky doesn’t really get the dynamic between these four, there’s not clearly one of them that stands out as leading the rest. He supposes it could be because they all four of them decided to be equal partners in crime, breaking curfew to come check him out.

“I have!” Pietro boasts suddenly, breaking the silence and startling all of them back a step, even Mac who practically cowers on the other side of the building.

Bucky laughs again. This might actually be fun.

* * *

Steve lays flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling in the office. It’s just past 0200 hours, which he knows because he just checked his phone for the hundredth time after apparently imagining that it had buzzed. Bucky texted him only one more time that night with a quick ‘ _Sitrep good_ ’, and that was it. Steve already knows they can’t too personal over text message on phones paid for by the government and purchased at the Base Exchange, but it would have been nice if Bucky had elaborated just a little bit.

What the fuck happened with those SCFs? Did Bucky… _win?_

“Ugh,” Steve laments, and throws off another layer of blankets. His mother piled them up on the futon, apologizing again for yelling at him earlier, which only served to make Steve feel even guiltier and didn’t help things at all when he finally tried to get some sleep. He swipes his damp hair off his sweaty brow and lets his arms fall to the sides, spreading out like a starfish on the mattress.

At least his father seemed to behave himself that evening. Both of Steve’s aunts were there, husbands in tow, and luckily his father’s loud, boisterous sisters were enough of a distraction that the general paid him little attention other than to order him around to help his mother, make coffee, and clean up after. Steve was happy with that role, since he was the only one of the ‘kids’ in the house, and spent plenty of time with his mom and aunt Ruth’s German Shepherd to make up for it.

“Aw, she likes you, Stevie!” Ruth remarked at one point, after leaving a stack of desert plates she brought in from the dining room.

“Probably smells cat on him!” Joseph chuckled, when he followed right after her to drop off his coffee cup. Steve nearly broke himself in half trying not to flinch when a thick hand ruffled the hair on the back of his head.

“Joseph,” his mother sharply hissed, and miraculously his father lifted up his hands up to show he had been disarmed, and returned to the dining room and their company without another word.

Steve wanted to ask her what that was about, he really did. When it came to his parents, he just didn’t know how to get answers, so instead he returned to loading the dishwasher and pretended everything was fine.

Now, Steve is left ruminating over that brief exchange, and wonders what kind of discussions went on that Steve isn’t aware of, behind his back. Steve checks his phone one more time, because he may as well while he’s wide awake, and frowns at his empty notifications. He has no new messages, let alone any from Bucky. Maybe the next day would be easier, after his cousins arrive and the full Rogers clan out in force to keep his fucked up family occupied.

He only hopes his dad’s shitty little comment about smelling like cats is the last he hears about it over the holiday.

* * *

Bucky zips up his boots, pulls his one, fingerless glove over his metal hand, buttons up his black BDUs and heads out. It’s zero-six-hundred hours, two hours before the bugle call of Reveille signals the start of the day at Fort McNair. Technically, as Tripp had assured him, they aren’t breaking curfew because zero-six-hundred is their usual time for drills. Only the humans are all gone for the holiday, the cats left on their own, and Fort McNair happens to have an _actual_ baseball diamond.

Bucky makes his way there on foot in the darkness of the winter morning. His breath comes out as thick, frosty clouds while he follows the long road all the way to the North end of the base, opposite the War College. It’s not snowing now, but piles of it had dumped overnight, and Bucky breaks out into a grin after he passes the soccer field. He’s excited for this, was thinking about it all night while he was trying to sleep, and even forgot his phone back at his room when he hurried out.

The snow carries a crisp, clean scent to his chilled nostrils, all that water bunched up and settled over the rest of the world, blotting out the dirt and the grass and the tiled rooftops of the officer’s housing and the barracks. Fresh, undisturbed snowfall creates the most peace that a scent-filled world could ever hope for and Bucky loves the sensation of being settled and quiet it creates.

No one says anything when he arrives, tails and ears offering enough greeting, but the ones Bucky hadn’t met already curiously scent the air around him before they leave it at that. There’s a full dozen of them, all milling around the chainlink fence that pens in the sports fields from the road, all just as young as the four Bucky already knew. They seem unsure of how to proceed, carrying their mismatched bats and one single, ragged ball, like they don’t want to ruin such a clean white canvas with evidence of their truancy.

Brooklyn is the one who points his chin out to the glistening field. “Can we play in this?”

Bucky tilts his head, skeptically regarding the lot of them. “It’s nothing,” he assures them. “Sakhalin would be so much worse this time of year, freezing rain and slush. It’s probably not even going to snow again today.”

The young cats loosen up at that, like they had just been waiting for permission, tails relaxing as they look back out with renewed interest. Bucky can tell they are already measuring the distance of the plates without being able to actually see them.

“Well,” Bucky sighs, because apparently no one else will. “Let’s pick teams.”

“Winter Soldier’s team!” Pietro declares loudly, and Brooklyn makes a disgusted sound before he turns away, thin tail slicing through the air like a knife, to join the other team already forming around Mac. Tripp looks torn where to follow, but eventually follows Pietro and Bucky waits patiently for the rest to sort themselves out without trying to offer anything that could be interpreted as orders.

Mac gives another I-told-you-so smile when he wins the coin toss against Bucky, but Pietro darts out into the snow, happy to play outfield. Somehow, Bucky wound up being the one holding the bat, so he pushes it into Brooklyn’s hands just to see the small cat scowl at him.

“I’ll pitch,” Bucky offers with a wink, and feels a thrill when he sees Brooklyn’s frown break up as his face turns pink. Bucky turns his back on him and practices tossing the ball from his metal hand to the flesh one while he walks out to the mound, kicking through the ankle-deep snow.

The other cats on his team eventually locate the plates and turn towards the home, where — he’ll be damned — Brooklyn is lining up to bat.

Bucky meets the other cat’s challenging smile, winds up, and throws the ball as hard as he can.

The game starts, and Bucky has the absolute time of his life.

* * *

Despite the splash of warm light from the windows behind him, the smell of pumpkin pie and fragrant wood burning in the fireplace still clinging to his clothes, Steve sits outside, under the eaves of his mother’s house, and glares out on the garden alone.

This has been the worst Thanksgiving he’s ever had. That includes the Thanksgiving after Sakhalin, when he was still recovering from one of his many skin graft surgeries and had to shit in a bedpan while a nurse held his hand.

His family is still inside, thankfully unaware that he snuck away, and Steve wonders if he could get away with a tactical retreat. He might make it to his car without anyone noticing if he walked around the side of the house and left through the back gate. His mom might be angry, but she wouldn’t be heartbroken — he had shown up after all — and she knew his father being there was like dropping a bombshell on him.

General Rogers never showed any interest in joining the family for Thanksgiving, and now he’s all warm smiles and happy conversation? Lamenting his missed family time? ‘Grateful’ that he had this opportunity to see everyone all in one place? He even told his cousin Samantha how proud he was of Steve, how much Steve accomplished within the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and how noble it is that his work will impact the lives of so many loyal feline companions.

That was the word he used, _‘noble’_ , as if he couldn’t even bullshit in character by saying something like ‘ _kick ass_ ’ or ‘ _balls to the walls_.’ Instead, he had to read it like it was from some speech. For all Steve knows, it’s part of something he’s been practicing for the fucking President.

Steve pulls out his phone, loads up Here Kitty for the first time since that night of Fury’s ultimatum, and doesn’t feel any better when he sees Bucky’s icon load within the Fort McNair base. He hopes Bucky is alright, and Steve chews his thumb when he thinks about that scarf he wrapped around Bucky’s neck. Did that make things worse for him?

A snap of wind makes him shiver, and Steve tucks away his phone in order to jam his hands back into the relative warmth of his jacket pockets. It’s snowing again, heavy clumps that fall straight down into thick drifts, and would probably continue like this until morning. He hopes he doesn’t get snowed in. That would just be the _perfect_ ending to this shitty holiday, so if he left now it’d really just be to avoid the hassle. It’s not like he’s actually spending time with his family at this point. Steve just couldn’t take it anymore after the conversation swung towards Peirce’s Nobel Prize, and excused himself. He’d been sitting outside ever since, fantasizing about leaving, and almost gathers up the nerve to do it when he finally gets a text from Bucky.

_> Sitrep good. _

_> Better than expected._

_> Stop worrying._

Steve blinks at his phone, happy enough for the first text, then snorts as soon as the third one loads. “Jerk,” Steve mutters to himself, but smiles because of course Bucky knew he was worrying.

The back door leading to the kitchen cracks open, letting out just enough sound for Steve to catch another laugh from Samantha’s husband, and Steve’s mom pokes her head out. “There you are,” she says, her voice soft as she hides the rest of herself behind the door when another breeze scatters the snow under the overhang. “How long have you been out here?”

“Not too long,” Steve says. He meant to put on his smile when he said it, meant to use the same, practiced happiness he uses every day when he goes to work, when he salutes the guards, when he speaks with Director Fury, and yet somehow it fails him, and his voice comes out thin and miserable, even in his own ears. He hopes she doesn’t notice.

“Steven,” Sarah Rogers asks, her tone going from gentle to concerned like the flip of a switch as she steps out of the house to join him outside, in her slippers. “Did something happen?”

Steve shifts over a few inches on the bench he’d been moping on and she takes a seat next to him, and for a moment Steve tries to act like they are just two, normal adults before his shoulder slumps and he leans towards her. She immediately pulls him to her chest, wrapping her short arms as best she could around his bulk in a brief, half hug before he pulls away.

“Alright, son boy,” she says, trying to toughen up her tone but failing, and her voice shakes anyway. “What’s wrong?”

Sarah Rogers is a petite woman, five-foot-nothing and a ball of a fire with curly blond hair. Steve had been a small kid, the whole family assuming he took after her when he showed no signs of catching up to his father’s towering height. He was just as shocked as the rest of them when he seemed to make up the difference over the course of one summer vacation, and has the stretch marks to prove it. Still, Steve liked to think he took after his mom in other ways, even if not the physical ones.

“You know what’s wrong,” Steve finally sighs. “What’s he doing here?”

“Ah,” she knowingly replies and kicks her short legs out. Even on the bench her feet don’t touch the ground. “I was worried about that. I know things were hard for you, growing up. Sometimes I think I made a terrible mistake, leaving like I did. Sometimes I think I made a worse mistake, leaving at all. If I took you with me, he wouldn’t have allowed it, if I stayed it would have gotten worse— _much worse,_ ” she sharply adds, when Steve opens his mouth to interrupt. Sarah’s mouth presses into a thin line, and she shivers. She’s wearing a sweater, but nothing warm enough to be out in this weather. It’s the kind of weather that reminds him of Sakhalin, the kind of weather that makes the keloid scar on his hip tighten up and ache.

Still, she takes the time she needs to gather her thoughts, and it’s a while before she starts again. “It isn’t really the time for this conversation.” Her voice a little more quiet than before, a little more brittle. “But maybe we can talk about it again, soon.”

Steve looks away then, and is already thinking he’d just tell her now that he’s leaving. He doesn’t really care how late it is.

“Just. I wanted what was best for you,” she adds, surprising him. “Even if it meant I wasn’t going to be there. I wanted to give you the best shot at being happy. I tried to, anyway. I thought your father was trying when he asked to come. He said you two had been working close together on this Winter Soldier project for the president, that he wanted to surprise you. I guess I still fall for that act, even so many years later.”

Sarah suddenly hops off the bench, the complicated conversation over just like that, and leaves Steve outside with that thought. It’s probably the first time since the divorce she even hinted at the abuse Steve suffered. The first time in his adult life, for that matter.

The fact that she could possibly believe it could have been better without her there isn’t the thought that squeezes his heart. It’s the idea that Joseph Rogers still fools her too, able to convince her he could possibly change. Sometimes, Steve has to remind himself that his dad hurt her too.

Steve stands up, checks his phone one more time, and does a double take when he sees he had missed one more text from Bucky.

_> Callback on your sitrep? _

Steve winces. Normally it’d be impossible to lie to Bucky about something he’s been so upset about all evening, but it’s easy enough in text message.

_> >Sitrep good. Happy Thanksgiving._

He adds a smiling emoji to complete the effect, and heads back inside to get himself a slice of pumpkin pie.

* * *

Bucky is exhausted, sweaty, and completely soaking wet by the time he gets back to his dorm. They played baseball for hours, only quit when Reveille rang out across the loud speakers on the base, and the humans that remain on duty started to emerge for their morning shifts.

The cats made sure to leave the field without a single clean patch of snow in sight. Tearing through all the ice and slush had been part of the fun after all, and an added challenge for the smaller cats that couldn’t clear it on all fours without it touching their bellies, like Bucky could.

Bucky’s hands are stiff, aching from the cold after running through the snow, his fur tipped with frost, but he feels good after letting himself open up like that. It’s been so long since he’s been physically challenged to keep up with anyone else and his heart still races with delight after bounding through the snow like it was nothing, like it was just there for fun.

Dripping BDUs are an immediate problem, so he starts to peel off his jacket when there’s a small knock on his door. It’s still a weird concept for him to receive visitors, so he listens for a few beats before he steps through his tiny kitchen and opens it.

“Brooklyn,” he says in a grunt.

The small cat is scowling, like he’s angry at himself just for showing up, and the tip of his tail nervously twitches from side to side. His ears are flat, his chin dipped, showing Bucky the top of his head. He’s just as wet as Bucky, and muddy besides, after being tackled in the churned up dirt half a dozen times. “You got a minute?”

Bucky shrugs and steps back, and Brooklyn takes a few, cautious steps inside. Bucky catches his scent, thickly swirling beneath the layer of drenched fur, but finds that he can’t really focus on it. Brooklyn stoops in a half-crouch, eyes going wide as he takes in the unfamiliar space, and Bucky closes the door behind him, watching him marvel at it.

“Is all this yours?” Brooklyn asks, turning around twice near Bucky’s bed. “Is that a _bathroom?_ ”

“Yes.” Bucky doesn’t follow the smaller cat past the kitchen. He’s left his own BDU jacket on the back of his single chair to drip dry, and already kicked off his boots at the door, so he patiently crosses his bare arms over his chest and waits. “I don’t have to share it. What do you want?”

Brooklyn looks surprised by the question, then annoyed that he got distracted and taken off guard. His ears turn humbly away and he takes in a breath. “I wanted to know,” he says, and his tail curls protectively around his ankles. “I wanted to know if you’d mate with me.”

Bucky laughs, and Brooklyn’s attempt at a submissive posture drops away completely. The defiant scowl comes back, his chin raises and he takes two steps towards Bucky showing his teeth. Bucky backs up a step, though not because he’s intimidated by the other cat’s efforts. Instead he laughs again. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t mean to tease the smaller cat but he doesn’t want to have to put him in his place, either. “I just thought you hated me.”

“I don’t! I just hate your type,” Brooklyn keeps advancing, and Bucky suddenly realizes he’s still retreating, like he’s actually threatened. Ridiculous. “I hate you thoroughbreds, with all your size and your strength and your fucking cute markings—”

Bucky plants his back foot and gives him a toothy smile. “You think I’m cute?”

Brooklyn was supposed to laugh at that, or snarl, or scoff at his smart ass remark, but instead he lunges up and nips at Bucky’s throat with a snap of his teeth. Bucky doesn’t think about what to do next, doesn’t even have to try to dislodge the weaker cat’s grip before he has him turned around and bent over the kitchen counter.

Brooklyn squeaks as he goes down under Bucky’s weight, hopelessly outclassed, but when Bucky sinks his own fangs into the back of Brooklyn’s neck the smaller cat’s hand goes up to grab Bucky’s hair and hold him there. Bucky tears open the wet fabric of Brooklyn’s BDU jacket, presses his hips into Brooklyn’s small frame, and before he knows it has his hand around the base of Brooklyn’s tail.

“Do it, Buck,” Brooklyn says in Steve’s voice and suddenly Bucky’s made a horrible mistake, suddenly he realizes —

— He’s having a nightmare. Bucky leaps out of bed, confused and off balance in his strange, new space, tangles himself up in the blankets, and lands in a heap on the floor. He tears the comforter away, sucking in huge lungfuls of air, and doesn’t even bother to move for a good fifteen seconds while he gets his shit together.

“Fuck,” Bucky wheezes out, when he’s done reassuring himself it was just a dream. The sex fantasy played out exactly the sort of way he’d want it to, a bit of privacy to dominate the small, stubborn cat that made his body ache for attention. He doesn’t want Brooklyn, not really, but his dick has its own agenda and it seems to still need some convincing that it had been just a dream. Bucky knows full well that most humans generally have monogamous relationships, and he’s starting to think he prefers it that way too after all that panic.

Still, the thrill of dominating that small cat is enough to get him going, and now that he’s relaxed somewhat his cock seems to double its efforts to get his attention. He’s so fucking horny he feels lightheaded.

“Alright, alright…” He’s sweaty enough he may as well get in the shower and take care of it.

Bucky slowly pulls himself up from the carpet, then flinches when the sheets slide off his erection. It’s over stimulated to the point of pain, and Bucky just barely gets his hand around it before his hips lock and his balls seize up in an immediate, and unsatisfying orgasm.

“Shit!” He hisses, coming all over his own hand and down his thighs. He waits a few seconds, feels the muscles in his hips release before he stands upright and swipes his sweaty hair out of his eyes. One side effect of living in such a small space is that it heats up easily when his windows are closed up for the weather, only Bucky frowns when he sees the curtains next to his bed drift in the creeping, frigid wind.

His window is cracked after all, chill air coming in from outside. So how come he can’t seem to catch his breath and he’s _dripping_ with sweat?

“Shit,” Bucky whispers, as the pieces fall into place.

He’s in heat.

* * *

NSFW WARNING

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Bashful Bucky trying to get Steve's attention, by the incredibly talented [SinbinConsultant](http://sinbinconsultant.tumblr.com/post/160375838588/snow-leopardbucky-being-sassy-and-posing-for-a)! 

[Click](http://sinbinconsultant.tumblr.com/image/160375838588) for full size! 

[ ](http://sinbinconsultant.tumblr.com/image/160375838588)

 

 


	24. Best Laid Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING!!! This chapter ends in a pretty divisive cliffhanger. I would recommend that anyone who has anxiety over cliffhangers wait until Chapter 25 is posted and read them both together. Or you can message me on Tumblr and I can tell you the resolution, if you prefer spoilers.
> 
>  
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

Bucky paces, one hand on his phone while the other grips at his license. What does he do? Does he report himself? Will he get in trouble if he doesn’t? Would Steve? They’ve already had one formal warning from Director Fury, and Steve doesn’t usually need to be ordered to do something twice. Bucky goes back to pacing, and texts Tony instead.

_> Hey. What do you do when it’s time for_

Bucky chews on his bottom lip and thinks about how he could talk to the other, more experienced cat about his current situation.

_> [Fire emoji] [heart-eye cat emoji]_

He picked up Tony’s code pretty quickly, so he hopes his meaning fits the model and sends the text. It’s only zero three hundred and if he’s lucky the captain would be coming home in a few hours, but in the meantime he has energy to burn.

What does he do? What does he do?

Bucky forces himself to stand still, just long enough to drag his fingers through his hair. “Shit,” he groans, yanks his own ears down and flexes his jaw. The baseball game left him sore, the lack of sleep left him exhausted, he’s sticky from sweat, and the hair between his legs is tacky with come. He’s hot, uncomfortable, and confused. “Shit, shit, _shit.”_

He doesn’t want Brooklyn, he _doesn’t,_ but will he be able to properly mate with Steve? He doesn’t think so. Steve isn’t a cat, doesn’t carry a scent like one, and no matter how long Bucky tucks his head under Steve’s chin, no matter how far he runs his tongue along Steve’s soft skin, those scents will never mingle in the right way, won’t satisfy the need burning through his body.

Bucky can’t even dominate Steve like he aches so much to do. Or could he? Steve might let him, might give him consent if he asks, but then what? There’s still the issue of Steve being _not-a-fucking-cat._

Now his thoughts are running in circles and Bucky’s head swims as his pacing takes him into his bathroom. What does he do?

Shower. He should shower. Showering is always nice when he’s in heat, a luxury he doesn’t mind getting used to now that he has one of his very own. The water isn’t nearly as cold as the piercing iciness on Sakhalin, but relief still washes over him and he sighs as he scrubs away the sweat and mess from that pathetic little orgasm.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, letting the tension drain out of his shoulders. He’ll just have to wait until Steve comes back to him, just has to tell him he’s in heat as soon as possible, and let him make the call. If this happened a week ago they’d both try to hide it, but things are different now since Bucky protected Steve from General Rogers and they agreed to follow the rules. Following the rules is the only way for Bucky to keep his place in SHIELD’s plan for him to join the Wakanda Movement, and they can finally figure out what the hell kind of war they’re all fighting.

Maybe Bucky could go to the VA instead of the CFC. Does the VA have a mating program?

“Fuck,” he whispers again. If he spends his season with another cat, it’d be for tactical reasons only, but even considering it feels like a betrayal. Bucky feels the awkward crawl of shame brushing against the scruff every time Brooklyn’s pointy face is conjured up in his thoughts, the memory of how those narrow hips felt between Bucky’s hands. His dick twitches as he remembers the dream and immediately starts to stiffen. “Give me a fucking break,” Bucky growls down at it.

The water is still cool and his body is still radiating heat, so he tentatively wraps his hand around his dick and forces his very real memory of Steve over the fading dream memory of Brooklyn. Steve winds up shrinking by about thirty percent from his actual size, just enough for Bucky to easily press against his back and reach his scruff with his mouth. At that size, Bucky could easily drag his hand through Steve’s soft, yellow hair. He’d pull it gently but firmly, forcing the human’s head back so that Bucky could nip at the line of his jaw.

Bucky would run his tongue over the pulse point in Steve’s tender throat, and the human would gasp and flex in his arms. His ears would flutter, unable to hold still as Bucky pushes against his tail— wait, no. No tail. Steve doesn’t have one of those and his stiff, human ears wouldn’t move either.

Bucky shakes his head and moves on, ignoring the meaningless details that don’t help his fantasy, focusing instead on remembering Steve’s sharp scent. The deep timbre of his voice, the elegant length of his fingers as he threads them through Bucky’s hair and moans his name.

That does it.

Bucky’s hips jerk forward and he plants his forehead against his arm while he leans into the fiberglass shower wall. Fantasy Steve makes a pretty little noise of surprise, but Bucky is gentle as he licks the back of his neck, and the human still consents, encouraging him just like he nearly had in Bucky’s dream. _Come on, Buck,_ he’d say.

Bucky bites his metal arm as the orgasm hits him, this time strong enough to make him gasp, then cry out when gasping isn’t enough. His hips lock up and his belly clenches, and he barely notices when his barbs prick his own hand. Heat from his come spills over the top of his fingers and marks the shower wall. In his fantasy it streaks across Steve’s back, and the human shakes and moans and _loves_ it.

It feels like it takes forever for the muscles in Bucky’s hips loosen up, and once they do his knees wobble, clumsy after a second orgasm. He shivers when his body temperature finally goes back down, lets himself blink in the shower spray as his head starts to clear.

Fantasy Steve finishes draining away as Bucky cleans up, but the desire for his human remains. His scruff tingles with want, and he’s agitated, grumpy in a way that tells him he still needs to find real relief somewhere. At least he came into season naturally, so he’s not as overwhelmed by it like he had been on Sakhalin, all those years ago.

Back then Bucky had found some comfort in Steve’s touch, even as they were trapped together in the heat sink beneath Arnim Zola’s lair. He’s pretty sure that had been the first time the human pet his ears. That memory twists something painful in Bucky’s gut, something so much needier than his base physiological urge to have sex, and Bucky gathers up all his blankets from the floor and throws them in one big bunch on the bed. He goes to his closet and drags out Steve’s scarf, wraps it around his head and flops onto his cool mattress, burying his face into the blanket mound.

It’s not really helpful, but it feels nice to shove his face into something so soft and forgiving, entirely surrounded by the scent of his human. All he has to do is hold out until the captain comes home. Steve will know what to do, and come up with a plan, like he always does.

* * *

Steve can’t fucking wait to get home.

Thankfully, Black Friday lured away everyone else who would normally be stuck in morning traffic so he makes great time, escaping back to DC after the world’s most awkward family breakfast.

It would have been too much to hope that his dad would have given up on the passive aggressive comments about Steve’s work with humanoid felines, but there were a hundred other much smaller ways his father decided to attack him over smiles and laughter and good food. Steve kept his cool after he pointed out, over and over again, that Steve didn’t have a drink in his hand. He casually answered how he’s liking the apartment, and took it in stride when Joe felt the need to tell everyone how he was the one who signed the lease over.

Of course, it would have been too much to even dream that Steve could have escaped without the topic of his love life coming up. It turned out his cousin was the one who walked right into that one, and Joe made sure Steve saw his shitty little eye roll after Samantha asked about ‘that handsome Air Force major’ Steve mentioned the previous year.

Had it already been a year? It didn’t matter. Steve missed Sam, but he’d be damned if his relationship with him would be used for his father to make some gross comment about Bucky so he cut off the conversation on the spot. One glance at his mom told him she understood that it was time for him to get the fuck out of there. Some day maybe Steve will be able to tell her about Bucky, maybe she’d even understand, or at least welcome the happiness the relationship brings him. Some day.

Steve said his goodbyes quickly and the worst Thanksgiving of his life was finally over.

Steve texts Bucky from the road, and the cat surprises him when he immediately responds with a simple confirmation. Bucky usually winds up sleeping entire mornings away when he doesn’t need to work, since he spends his nights creeping around, working out in the gym, or raiding the refrigerator. Steve suspects that he’s still unsettled at Fort McNair, and might be making regular surveillance circuits of the grounds. It took the cat weeks to stop his daily inspections of every inch of Steve’s building. Steve was never entirely sure exactly what it was Bucky hunted.

Just over a half hour later and Steve is back in DC, trying to calm his nervous knee from bouncing up and down when he pulls into the security checkpoint for the base. He’s not in uniform so he doesn’t have to worry about getting a single salute while he’s still technically on vacation. He doesn’t even bother smiling at the guard.

It takes him all of ten minutes to reach the Winter Soldier housing, park, and kick through the snow to Bucky’s building. He tries to think of some reason to be there in case he comes across anyone else, but finds it impossible to focus on crafting even the flimsiest excuse as he trots up the front stairs to Bucky’s unit.

Before he can even knock, Bucky flings open the door with such force that whatever Steve had in mind for their reunion scatters from surprise. He just manages to get out a strangled cry of shock when Bucky — stark naked — grabs him by the front of his coat, hauls him over the threshold and slams the door behind them.

It’s dark inside with all of Bucky’s new curtains pulled shut, and Steve’s back hits the door with a _woof!_ when Bucky pushes him up against it. Steve gasps when Bucky latches onto the side of his neck with a rough kiss. “ _Ah!_ You- you miss me, buddy?” Steve’s voice is already high and breathy, but he can’t help it. Bucky’s teeth are gently closing around the soft flesh of his throat, small seeking bites, prepping him for more.

Then Bucky growls — not like a cat but like a man — and Steve jumps when Bucky suddenly slams his hands above Steve’s shoulders. Bucky forces his head down between his own elbows, pushes the top of his head into Steve’s chest, and Steve can hear a sharp intake of breath.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, without looking up. “It’s just. I- I want... _mmnf...”_

“Hey,” Steve tucks his hand under Bucky’s chin, tilts his face up to get a good look at him. “What do you need? Are you —”

Steve’s stomach tenses and he cuts off his question. Bucky’s hair is limp, sticking to the sides of his face with sweat, and his eyes are huge and dark and scared. Steve can feel the heat radiating off him from where his knuckles brush the underside of Bucky’s chin, can see his whole body is slick with it.

“Are you… are you in heat?” Steve gets one, miserable nod in response while Bucky continues his rough breathing. “Are you okay?”

Bucky shakes his head, and tucks back under Steve’s chin hard enough that Steve’s teeth click shut. “This is going to be complicated,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve doesn’t know exactly what to say to that, but already knows what his poor lover is most afraid of. He carefully slides his hands down Bucky’s sides, gathers him closer by his waist, so that the heat from Bucky’s bare chest seeps through Steve’s wool coat. Bucky’s hips sway slightly in his grip, as his tail continues to anxiously move side to side. “You’re not going to the CFC,” Steve flatly states, without a hint of doubt. It’s non-negotiable as far as he’s concerned, and he’s not afraid to make that promise. “You’re not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out together.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, but it’s through his teeth, and he still sounds frustrated.

“Hey,” Steve nudges, trying to get Bucky to look at him again. “How did things go with the others?”

“Ugh,” Bucky shudders, like thinking about it makes him sick. “Why did you have to ask.”

Steve chuckles. “Is- is that a good ‘ugh’? Or a bad —”

“Stop talking,” Bucky snaps, and looks up so sharply that excitement zips up Steve’s back, like someone licked his spine with an electrode. Bucky hesitates for just an instant, like even he’s surprised, but then his eyes narrow. “And turn around.”

His mouth is too dry to answer, so Steve just nods, turns around, and without being told, puts his palms flat against the door, like he’s ready to be strip searched. He’s not sure why, but he’s very interested in where this is all going.

Bucky’s teeth sink into the back of his neck so quickly that he cries out, and his whole body jerks from the sudden pressure. Bucky’s hips are already grinding into him, his nimble fingers already finding a way to unbutton his jacket, and drags it off his shoulders while Steve is distracted by the hot wet spark of pain. Bucky isn’t rough with him, not exactly, but he’s sure in his movements, confident that he owns Steve’s body. That thought is more thrilling than Steve knows what to do with.

Is this what Bucky meant when he tried to explain how cats dominate their mate?

Steve train of thought instantly derails when Bucky slips open his belt and his fly and has a hand down the front of his pants and— _oh!_ Steve’s forehead thunks into the back of the door and Bucky bites down even harder.

“Shit!” Steve hisses, because it’s on the right side of pleasure but it’s still pain, and his hips jerk into Bucky’s hand to get more of what it wants.

Bucky’s jaws loosen and he breathes hotly on the wet spot he made. His right hand is still down the front of Steve’s paints, wrapped around his dick as it grows harder and harder, while holding him tight across the chest with his left, metal hand braced against the door. Bucky groans through his teeth, pushes his forehead between Steve’s shoulder blades and shivers. “Is this- is this okay? Do you want me to stop?”

Bucky is asking for his consent. Steve opens his mouth to give it but just moans again, and takes a second to catch his breath before he answers. “Do it, Buck. I’ll let you know if it’s too much.”

“Good.”

Bucky yanks him around, and Steve is humbled by how much stronger the cat is than himself. Steve’s feet barely touch the floor as Bucky pivots, then bends him over the counter separating the kitchen from the living area.

Steve slaps both hands down on the counter, bracing himself, and for a long time they don’t have to think about what comes next. Steve wants Bucky to touch him, and Bucky does. Steve wants Bucky’s hand around his cock, and it just is. Steve wants Bucky to bite him, so Bucky bares down until Steve shivers and in a harsh whisper demands, _“harder!”_

A belt buckle clatters against the floor, a shirt is rucked up, pants are shoved all the way down, and Steve’s chest is pressed flat against the counter. He bites his own wrist when he feels a soft probing between his legs. Bucky unlocks his jaw and the dull bite becomes a sharp throb of pain now that the skin is released.

Bucky licks the spot a few times, breathing hard through his nose, but he isn’t purring. His breath is hot and heavy and loaded with a deep sound that is not quite a growl. His metal hand is planted firmly on the countertop over Steve’s shoulder, his claws twitching across the surface of the laminate, and his other suddenly moves away from massaging Steve’s leaking dick.

Steve wants it back, but all he manages is a breathy “Ah!” and gasps as the weight of Bucky’s bulk lifts off him for the time being. He catches his breath and shifts, taking a moment to adjust his awkward position. It’s uncomfortable, the counter isn’t big enough for this, and his knees keep banging into the drawer handles, but he doesn’t want to move because Bucky put him there, right where he wants him.

Steve closes his eyes and grins at his own helplessness, then gasps again when Bucky’s metal hand takes a hold of his hip and his flesh hand slips down between his legs. Bucky’s fingers are slippery and wet, and slide first around his cock, catching and mixing the the precome dribbling from the tip with lube, then moves down to massage his balls.

“You’ll tell me if I do this wrong,” Bucky orders and Steve nods, vigorously, before a single, probing finger pushes against the tight ring of muscle. It’s perfect, Bucky’s perfect, Steve’s body flinches for only a fraction of a second before he relaxes because it thinks he’s perfect too. Steve squirms and pushes back on Bucky’s hand, forcing it deeper inside.

“More... B-buck,” he pants, but using his voice again has forced a sharp cry out him and he bites his arm again to stifle it. When he asks again it sounds like, “Mmmnf!”

“I’ve got more,” Bucky tells him through his sharp teeth, and follows through when he pushes another finger inside alongside the first. Steve’s found a good pace now, rocking back into Bucky’s fingers while holding onto the edge of the counter for dear life, and Bucky lays back down on top of him. He ghosts his sharp teeth over the opposite shoulder and alongside his neck, and makes little hum of a question right by Steve’s ear.

“Yes,” Steve says, giving Bucky prompt permission to bite again. Bucky obliges, and Steve shudders at the fresh pain. “Oh, fuck,” Steve cries. Bucky’s lips are soft and hot, but his teeth mark him with a quick lance of ice. It travels through him like something in his blood, a white hot fizz that stirs up his insides and leaves him wanting even more.

“P-please… _ah!_ Please fuck me?” He’s begging, for the first time in his life. “P-please, Buck?”

“Mm,” Bucky hums an affirmative sound into his bite, then releases Steve’s neck with a slurp followed by another series of gentle licks. His rough tongue evens out the pain of the individual teeth marks, smoothing over the sharp edges, spreading the sensation out evenly across his back. It makes the hair on Steve’s body stand on end, a tingle that steals his breath before Bucky speaks hotly near his ear. “Going to be careful, though, okay?”

“Uhnn,” is all Steve says, so Bucky eases his fingers free and braces both hips between his hands.

“You have to agree to this one,” Bucky insists. “I won’t come inside you. But —” Bucky huffs and swallows and can barely hold himself still as he slowly explains. “But if I do, if there’s an accident, you can’t move like this. You have to freeze. Do you understand?”

 _Yeah, sure,_ Steve thinks, but instead of saying so, he just whines and rolls his hips, because he wants to feel that fullness, to feel Bucky moving inside of him again. He’s not normally so into this, into bottoming, or being bossed around, but something about the way Bucky shakes to control himself, the way he keeps his metal hand clutched on the counter, the way he practically picked Steve up like he weighed nothing, has given him this sense of being cared for in a way he’s never experienced before. It’s thrilling, and arousing, and, _and what’s taking so long?_

“Do you understand?” Bucky says again, and pats Steve’s rear with a gentle slap.

Even that is enough to make lightning strike the bottom of his gut and he shouts just to stop himself from coming. “Oh, f-fuck! Yes!”

“Good,” Bucky says again, and Steve feels the tip of his dick press between his cheeks, feels the gentle, but firm thrust testing the pressure needed to push inside. “So good,” Bucky murmurs. “You feel so amazing.”

The praise fills Steve’s belly with a warmth that spreads into his fizzing blood, makes him sigh with delight and comfort, and then Bucky thrusts again, this time sinking into him. Steve gives a soft cry, and Bucky nips at his ear before he presses flat on top of his back again.

The way Bucky moves with languid strokes of his hips, the way Bucky moans helplessly into Steve’s neck, and the heat of his sleek body, all work in concert to twist Steve up into this narrow little world where only the two of them have ever existed. Steve wants to live there forever. “P-please… don’t stop… B-buck. Harder. You c-can… _harder.”_

Bucky grabs ahold of his hips with both hands and gives him what he wants, thrusts so hard their bodies come together in a loud smack before Bucky pulls back and does it again and again. Steve’s hands, sweaty and weak, slip across the counter and he goes down face first, but it doesn’t stop them, doesn’t even slow them down, because Bucky’s got ahold of him now and he won’t let go.

Steve rides it out, lets his whole body feed on the heat bleeding out of Bucky’s body into his own. He can feel the smooth metal of Bucky’s left hand climbing up his back, the delicate drag of sharp claws through his hairline, before his head is tugged back and his whole body is lifted off the countertop.

“Stand up,” Bucky demands, and Steve does his best, reaches back to hold on, and anchors his head in the crook of the Bucky’s neck. Bucky keeps his hips moving, flexing inside of Steve’s body, and now his warm, wet hand is moving over Steve’s cock. Steve whimpers and squirms as Bucky strokes him, slipping quickly over the tip, and tightening as he drags his hand down to the base, just the way Steve does it himself.

“Good job,” Bucky grunts, then wraps his metal hand gently, so gently, around the front of Steve’s throat and kisses his temple. “You’re so beautiful.”

Steve’s body hums at a fever pitch and explodes in an orgasm that makes him shout Bucky’s name. He can feel a line of fire streak all the way up his chest when comes, and stars burst behind his eyelids as he gasps. Now it’s Bucky’s turn to try and hold on, and he grunts as a spasm throws Steve back from the counter and they crash into the refrigerator.

“Oh shit, oh fuck!” Steve gasps, and they hold onto each other when Bucky stabilizes, metal arm wrapped around Steve’s chest as he eases his cock out of Steve’s body. Steve doesn’t even know if he could have stood on his own two feet if Bucky let go, so he just hangs there, shaking. Steve’s soaked in sweat, his hair matted to his forehead, and the energy starts draining out of his arms after what feels like he just did a marathon of push ups. “Tired,” he gasps. “B-buck. I can’t… I need…”

“Hold on,” Bucky ducks his head under Steve’s arm, guides him out of the kitchen. Steve almost trips over something, boots or tangled shirt, but Bucky’s grip is strong and sure. The cat guides him to the bed without Steve’s feet really participating in the process. “Are you done?”

“Wha?” Steve is dazed, obliterated really, but not enough to leave a man behind. “No, never. I mean. Not til’ you are.”

Bucky smirks, and crinkles his nose at Steve’s babbling, proud of what he’s accomplished. “‘Preciate it,” he says and kisses Steve on the mouth, quickly, because even his elbows are starting to shake. “Now turn over.”

Steve turns over.

Bucky drags Steve’s hips toward the edge of the bed, props him up on his knees, then shoves him facedown into the mattress, again arranging Steve how he wants him. Steve grabs onto the soft bedding, curls his fingers into the blankets as Bucky runs a gentle hand down his back.

“Hm,” Bucky grunts, and slides a slick finger between Steve’s cheeks. “Wonder if I can… make this work.”

“Try,” Steve begs again, pushing his hips back to encourage whatever Bucky wants. Steve can’t remember the last time he felt so comfortable with someone else, so trusting, thrilled to look down into the abyss of a deadly fall and laugh, confident of his own immortality.

Bucky’s hot, slick cock presses again at Steve’s hole and it flutters, remembering him, but instead of pressing in he slides up, nestling between Steve’s cheeks. Steve hears Bucky’s heady groan of pleasure, and Bucky’s grip tightens. It feels good, the thin, delicate skin of Bucky’s cock sliding against his own, sensitive body, the very tip of his extended claws touching the thick, dull scar on the fleshy part of his hip.

“Ah— _mm,_ ” Bucky gently pants as he rocks back and forth, picking up the pace until he’s slapping into Steve, harder and harder, as the friction sparks another wave of arousal that takes Steve by surprise. He moans, clenches, and moans again, and this time Bucky gasps. “Shit, you feel… feel so g-good…”

Steve’s own cock gives a valiant twitch, somehow finding the strength to get half hard again as Bucky thrusts. Steve doesn’t have anything left though, just tries his best to hang on until Bucky’s hips slam against his backside, lock up, and a stunted growl slips out between his teeth.

Steve feels Bucky explode down his back, all the way to his shoulders. Suddenly, Steve doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to do. Hold still? Hold his breath? He does both as Bucky strains, shaking, his own breath held as he clenches through his orgasm.

“Gah - _Hah!_ ” Bucky abruptly cries, and topples over onto his side.

Steve makes an indignant, thin whine before he lets his body spread back out, like a puddle, and tries to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do with himself. His whole body is screaming for rest, his hips ache, his scar throbs, and his arms are absolutely useless at his side. “Fuck…” he mumbles into the blankets, trying to remember his own name. “Oh my god…”

“I feel awful,” Bucky coughs, still trying to catch his breath. “I think I’m going to actually burn to death.”

Steve laughs, sort of, because his face is still pressed into the blanket and it comes out as a pathetic, muffled sound that results in a back ache for some fucking reason. He’s still heaving, sucking in as much oxygen as he can manage while his brain slowly comes back online. “Is… is it always like this?”

“Hmm,” Bucky murmurs, and rolls over on his side. Steve can feel the bed shift as he wriggles closer, hesitant, like he’s not sure if he wants to just yet. “I guess. Sort of?” Bucky finally reaches Steve’s shoulder and nuzzles the skin there before he tastes Steve’s sweat, and Steve smiles into the blankets when he feels the little motor in Bucky’s throat start up. “It’s usually quicker,” he explains, as he lifts up just enough to lick the scruff of Steve’s neck, where he left a trail of love bites. “Usually rougher, too.”

“I guess I don’t really mind rough,” Steve admits, still surprised it took him this long to figure out for himself. He doesn’t think he’d be into it if it was with another human, but somehow Bucky dominating him like a cat dominates a mate is something he never knew he always wanted.

Steve flops over when Bucky doesn’t respond, making a mess of the bedspread. It hardly seems to matter, and he wants his arms around his lover. Steve meets Bucky’s purring mouth with a kiss, a simple press of lips, and Bucky kisses him back, then continues purring and licking along his jaw, letting himself be held. Steve can sense the dominance draining out of the cat, and he kisses Bucky’s wet mop of hair until his ears flick and tickle his nose.

His lover’s skin is so hot, Steve pulls back slightly for a lighter touch. “Does it. Um. Does it feel better?”

“No,” Bucky says, and this time his face scrunches up helplessly. He tucks his chin in and nuzzles at Steve’s chest, and Steve watches his tail coil up. “Not really.”

“Oh.” Steve’s breathing finally slows down as that starts to sink in.

From what Steve’s figured out, feline heat isn’t just about sex. It’s about finding a partner, some kind of physiological bond that happens when their scents intermingle, one neutralizing the other while they pair off to reproduce. It’s partially why artificial insemination programs never worked, and humans continue to struggle with keeping the cat species alive to this day.

It seems like it’s also the reason Steve’s touch isn’t enough to put out the fire that burns through Bucky’s body. “Oh...” Steve props himself up on his hands, as if rising up to get some air could possibly clear the thoughts tumbling around inside him. “I see.”

“Hmm?”

Steve feels Bucky’s tail brush against his leg where it makes a gentle question mark across their laps and reaches down to pet it. It’s a casual gesture, something he wants to do and does without thinking, familiar enough with Bucky’s boundaries to know it’s welcome, that it’s there just for him.

“If you want… if you have to…” Steve struggles with what he wants to say. Even though he has no right to apply his own views on sex and relationships to someone who isn’t even the same species, he hates where this is going next. He focuses on Bucky's soft fur, starts counting the spots as his hand brushes over them, trying to find the words.

Bucky tenses beside him and his tail archs firmly into Steve’s hand to prompt him before it thumps back down against his hip. “If I have to, what?”

“Mate,” Steve answers, still staring into the pattern of Bucky’s fur. “With another cat. I’m sure you could find… I mean, I could help you arrange it. Maybe one of the SCFs here could —”

Bucky sits up suddenly, his tail sweeps out from Steve’s grip. “What?” He blurts out. “Why? Why would you say that?”

“It’s okay, Buck.” It’s not okay, it’s not even close to okay, but Steve will say so anyway. “If that’s what you need, then I understand.”

“Well, I don’t understand,” Bucky insists, his ears flick from back to front. “What do you think I am? Do you think I just have to fuck another cat? Like I can’t control myself?”

“What? No.” Steve isn’t exactly sure how he’s miscalculated, but suddenly things have gone sideways, and the tension mounts when Bucky slides off the edge of the bed and begins to pace in the tiny living room. “I know what kind of trouble it causes you. What happened on Sakhalin —”

“What happened on Sakhalin doesn’t matter. I chose you,” Bucky sharply reminds him. His tail is sticking up behind him, a rare sign that he’s scared, while his ears twitch back while he tries to hold back his anger. Steve can see it all clearly in the way he moves that Bucky is furious and upset, so upset that if he were human he’d be raising his voice and crying. “I made the decision for myself. You’re monogamous, you mate for life. I understood that about you before I ever touched you.”

“I know, Buck.” Steve isn’t saying this right. All he wants is for Bucky to know that he has the freedom to chose for himself how to deal with his heat. No judgements. No expectations. “I know it, but I also know things would be different with you and it’s okay. I made that choice, too, when I —”

“Different,” Bucky flatly repeats. When he speaks again there’s something so painful crackling in his ragged voice that Steve’s argument dies on his lips. “I don’t want to be _different_. I want you to actually see me like another person— another human.”

“But…” Steve has no idea how to answer that. “You… want me to treat you like a human?”

Bucky abruptly stops pacing and shakes his head. “Yes! Well, no.” The fur on Bucky’s tail stands up, and his raw anxiety starts to fill up the tiny apartment. Steve doesn’t understand, doesn’t know how to give Bucky what he needs. “I just want to be yours. Alone. No more mating programs and no more kittens and no more humans telling me who I should be fucking.” Bucky’s ears snap back in fury and now he shows all his teeth when he spits out, “Maybe that’s what we’d _all_ want, if you’d just let us!”

Just like that, all the air is sucked out of the room.

Steve shivers and suddenly he feels like he doesn’t belong here. His fingers twist painfully into the sheets as he clenches his fists, and remembers that he hadn’t meant to be in the showers on Sakhalin, in the cat barracks, or between Bucky and Brock in the first place. Steve is cold without Bucky heating them both, and his bare skin prickles with drying sweat.

“I didn’t mean that,” Bucky abruptly says. Steve blinks, and can breathe again. He rubs his arms just to have something to do and tries to meet Bucky’s gaze. Instead it falls somewhere at Bucky’s feet, where his tail is coiling tightly around his ankles. “I didn’t mean to say… I don’t think that way. About you, I mean.”

“It’s okay if you do.”

Why not? Bucky has every right to feel the way he does. To use the word ‘you’ to mean ‘humans’ in general, when Steve is sitting here in his room, trying to tell him to sleep with another cat just so that his pheromones can be spread around.

“Fuck...” Bucky whispers. He shakes his head, chews on his bottom lip with his fangs and his tail bounces from side to side again. “It’s the heat. I’m sorry. It’s just. I can’t think straight. I shouldn’t be so upset that you’re just trying to help come up with a plan.”

“Not quite so star spangled, huh?” Steve grumbles miserably, bitter and cynical and fucking frustrated that it has to be this way.

“Ha!” Bucky shouts, then bubbles up in laughter.

Steve sucks in a breath, about to be pissed, but blows it back out again when Bucky keeps laughing. The cat scrunches up his nose and shakes his head, tearing up while he helplessly gasps, looking just as taken off guard by his reaction as Steve feels.

“Yeah, alright.” Maybe it’s a little funny. Bucky’s laughter is infectious at least, so Steve is smiling despite himself. He hasn’t heard that nickname in a long time and he has no idea what on earth made him conjure it up now. At least it’s managed to chase away the tension, and Bucky even comes back to butt his head into the side of Steve’s face affectionately before he heads into the shower to cool down.

Bucky surprises Steve when he brings out a hot washcloth first, so Steve is able to clean up the worst of their frantic sex while he waits his turn. Bucky’s shower is tiny, just a narrow glass cubicle, and Steve stops scrubbing in the soapy steam to watch Bucky shave. He wonders who taught him, wonders what kind of instructors the cat must have had for math and history and English. Did the feline military academy at Fort Drum have classrooms full of kittens learning to read?

Steve winds up staring at Bucky’s reflection for so long that Bucky finally catches him, and asks what’s wrong.

Steve doesn’t know how to answer, not really. He knew being Bucky’s lover would be complicated, knew that it meant his future would not involve marriage or children, knew that it would be something they’d have to keep private forever. He wasn’t really prepared for what it meant to be on the other side of the whole world from Bucky’s place in society.

Guilt makes Steve look away. He should apologize to Bucky, should go rescue Bucky’s mother, should use his position on the Joint Chief’s as the President’s mouthpiece to tell the whole fucking world that this is just wrong. Steve could spend his entire life trying to right the wrongs done to cats, and make almost no difference at all. It’s all too much for one person to apologize for, it’s impossible.

“Are you okay?” Bucky says, and turns away from the mirror while he pats down his freshly shaven face. His lips are bright red, his eyes clear and wide. He’s naked, his damp tail hanging idly behind him, his license tag glints in the light from overhead. Bucky looks relaxed, trusting. Steve’s heart thuds comfortably against his ribcage at how domestic their lives feel, in this moment at least. It’s a different kind of freedom that what Steve wishes they had, but freedom he’ll cling to none the less.

“I love you,” he says from behind the glass.

Bucky’s mouth falls open in shock, like he’s still getting used to hearing that and his fingers bunch the towel up around his cheeks as they turn pink. Then he grins with all his teeth, tail leaping from side to side, and proudly replies, “I love you, too.”

* * *

By the time he pulls his clothes back on Bucky starts sweating all over again. He drags the sheets off his bed, then bundles them up with the comforter and the towels into a tidy sack. He’s going to use the washing machine in Steve’s apartment, grateful for the offer since the laundry facility for the cats on base is locked up for the holiday weekend.

It’s always inconvenient, but Bucky has to admit they got lucky that he came into season now, rather than a week ago when they had back-to-back interviews. Steve is home from his family trip sooner than Bucky could have hoped, and they’ll be able to spend time together — the entire rest of the holiday weekend. Steve will be his one and only lover for the next three to five days, human or not, mate or no mate. They might actually be able to pull this whole thing off.

Steve comes out of the bathroom wearing a towel around his slim waist, and Bucky drops the blankets and stares. Steve isn’t paying all that much attention, running his fingers through his wet hair while he looks at his phone, dripping everywhere. There’s a line of water marking Steve’s broad chest, and Bucky licks his lips as he watches it bead up on the tip of Steve’s pink nipple. Bucky wants to suckle it off, and immediately gets hard at the mental image.

“Damn it,” he hisses, and Steve abruptly looks up, like that was his name being called.

“Okay, Buck?”

“Um.” Bucky glares down at the blanket bundle, because Steve is too beautiful to look at right now. The human doesn’t have the same metabolism as Bucky, probably can’t go another round, not yet. It’s what Tony warned him about when the other cat finally answered his text about how to handle his heat.

_> >It won’t work. It’ll be frustrating. Be gentle. Be patient. _

Bucky wants to eat the human alive but he knows it’s not fair. “Yeah,” he says, when he realizes Steve is still waiting for an answer. “Just. Hot.” He can do this. It’ll be fine. He already feels a little bit better actually, despite the trickle of sweat that leaks out from under his collar.

“Mmm,” Steve says, and maybe Bucky is a little bit distracted because suddenly the human is so very close. Steve carelessly tosses his phone onto the bare mattress and snakes his arms around Bucky’s middle, spreading out his fingers across Bucky’s belly. Bucky can feel every hair on his body lift when that broad chest presses into his back.

“We don’t really have anywhere to be, you know,” Steve breathes into Bucky’s scruff, while pulling Bucky’s hips into his own. Bucky’s tail bumps into the sloppy knot Steve made in his towel, knocking it to the floor in a damp heap. “I know it’s not solving anything but… we could try again?”

Bucky’s tail already accepted the offer, coiling around Steve’s calf so tightly that when Bucky spins around he has to yank it out of the way before he drags his human back down to bed.

* * *

They wind up spending most of the weekend at Steve’s apartment, fucking. Even with his father’s ever present threat, it’s safer than Fort McNair, and Bucky says he doesn’t want to distract the SCFs on base with his scent. It’s fine by Steve. He’s never been so thoroughly fucked into the mattress (or against the front door, or over the kitchen counter, or the arm of the couch.) Bucky’s stamina is endless, and his appetite is almost appalling. Steve suspects that if Bucky could eat and fuck at the same time he would, and Steve winds up ordering an extra blender and protein powder for Bucky’s dorm so that he can continue guzzling protein shakes in the evenings when they finally separate.

Steve can’t rightly call whatever physical urges he had before he was reunited with Bucky a ‘sex drive’. He had a good time with Sam when they first hooked up — a one night stand (that lead to another, and another,) until they became actual friends and left the sex behind. Steve hadn’t been in a great place back then, existing in a haze somewhere between the gym and a liquor bottle. Despite his wide smiles and a well managed career he had been drowning in his depression. Sam was a bright light that distracted him from his own head, and when they became actual friends wound up inspiring Steve to at least start treading water on his own.

Steve hadn’t really pursued anyone after that, hadn’t even considered it, and ultimately didn’t end up giving his dick a whole lot of thought. That changed dramatically after Bucky moved in, after he realized he was capable of such pure, uncomplicated love for another person. After he realized that meant there was something about himself worth loving too. His whole body came alive after that, resuscitated from a coma he’d been trapped in, as if he had left part of his soul behind on Sakhalin that had still been waiting for Bucky to come back.

A side effect of falling flat on his face in love was a fully recharged and ready to go libido, operating on overdrive as he continues to fall, deeper and deeper.

Sex had already been amazing with Bucky, had already been something different and intense and all consuming, but nothing could possibly compare to sex with Bucky in season.

Bucky once told him that heat sex isn’t ‘fun’, that it’s too frantic, too hot, and too rough. One thing that Steve’s already learned about Bucky as a lover, is that he likes it slow and gentle. He loves it when Steve uses his weight to push deep inside him, and hold him close.

Bucky has no patience for that affectionate love making while the heat drives him on, so instead Steve gets more of what _he_ wants. Bucky is demanding, firm, and every part of him that touches Steve leaves a sharp trail of fire along his skin. There’s no purring, no sweet kisses, none of Bucky’s careful tasting with his barbed tongue.

Even though Bucky keeps his claws from raking wounds into Steve’s scar, even though he grits his teeth and asks for consent, Steve can tell that he’s barely holding himself back from utterly ravaging him. Witnessing Bucky’s monumental level of self control play out in the little trembles of his jaw as he puts his teeth on Steve’s neck, or the distinct shuttering sound the metal plates in his arm when his claws lock up, puts a fire in Steve’s belly to match Bucky’s own raging heat.

They know they are pushing it. Steve takes Bucky back to the base every night, muzzled and all, but it’s still a risk. Despite the newly awakened lust that keeps Steve coming back for more, he also knows he can’t keep up the pace for much longer. By Monday, his arms feel like overcooked spaghetti and his hands feel clumsy and huge. He keeps dropping his phone and his keys and his hat. His legs wobble as he trudges down the stairs in the morning, feeling every inch of skin that Bucky licked raw. He wound up putting band-aids over each nipple, since they bled after he urged Bucky to lick them so hard. Bucky put a stop to it after he decided Steve had enough, but Steve could have gone for longer. He’s grateful now since they’ve started to heal (and itch) because it’s no fun feeling it under the layers of his stiff uniform.

Steve heads into work alone to finalize the military comms strategy for the PR playbook the President’s staff will be armed with at the award ceremony. His mind is already working through the emails he’ll have to queue up, the cross-functional meetings Private Lorraine scheduled him for, and the various channel plans that are due from the rest of the team. He receives a text from the JCS notification system to expect a visit from POTUS at the Pentagon today, so while it’s frustrating he didn’t get more than a few minutes notice, it really is business as usual.

Since it is just another Monday, he smiles and returns salutes, asks Private Lorraine about her holiday and buries himself in the details of his job. Before he knows it, it’s already after lunch. His team’s meeting with President Pierce will be coming up right after, and then there will be only a few more short hours before he can call it a day and head to Fort McNair.

He hopes Bucky’s day has been so thoughtless and mechanical, but somehow feels like the cat is probably suffering through his heat in a pathetic, sweaty puddle.

* * *

By the time the early afternoon rolls around, Bucky is a pathetic, sweaty puddle on his cool, kitchen floor. He’s masturbated at least three times (that one time he orgasmed and nothing came out probably doesn’t count) and still can’t seem to find relief. His window is wide open, blowing snow onto his clean bedspread, but he hardly cares. He has Steve’s red scarf balled up next to his face, and every once in awhile pushes his nose towards it, chasing the scent of his lover while his body aches to be touched.

Why the fuck did Steve have to go to work today? Fucking military...

Bucky curls up tighter around the scarf, his tail finding its way up to his mouth and he chews on the tip. It’s a bad habit but he hardly cares about that either, because he’s miserable and lonely and just wants this whole silly business to end. Thank fuck he only comes into season once a year.

Bucky’s tail thumps, the end of it yanks out from between his teeth like even it’s done with letting him feel sorry for himself, so he sighs and drags himself up. Not all the way up though, because he’s still pouting, so he plants his chin on his counter and stares at his new blender, wishing a protein shake would make itself.

Tony warned him it would be rough, warned him that humans and cats really can’t mate. Bucky didn’t really understand at first, didn’t think it would be all that different from foregoing mating altogether, but it’s so much worse than that. Being so close to Steve, his belly filling with want and his chest expanding with affection, but none of those satisfying that deep, needy itch is a frustration he’s never experienced before. It’s like eating and never feeling full, like being taunted by the delicious scents of his favorite dish and only closing his teeth around steamy vapors.

Bucky’s stomach growls at the thought.

At least now he’s finally hungry enough to drag himself up and make that protein shake. He finishes scooping the powder into the blender’s pitcher when it occurs to him that all the base services are open again now that the holiday is over. He could go eat with the other cats, or even use his charge card in the human cafeteria to get a hot meal. Suddenly, the blended powder and yogurt doesn’t sound so appealing so Bucky rinses off in a quick shower, gets dressed and heads out.

The exercise feels good, especially in the brisk weather, and he enjoys filling his chest with the cold air, letting it chill his body from the inside out. It’s not snowing now, but there’s a light dusting along the sidewalks as he heads for the main common area. The National War College down by the marina has its own cafeteria, and there’s the Officer’s Club on the Potomac (that he’s sure he’s not welcome in.) That leaves the food court in the BX, which he’s never tried but always smells good when he walks by.

The friendly man in a white apron and a little folded hat that services the cafeteria station laughs and calls Bucky adorable after he places a massive order of fish tacos, a blackened salmon sandwich, crab salad, and a whole roasted chicken. When Bucky shows his base charge card, the man in the apron frowns and suddenly doesn’t look so friendly as he gathers Bucky’s order into a few paper takeout containers. He yanks Bucky’s collar to scan his license before charging the card, then grunts and shoves the receipt into Bucky’s bag before taking the next customer’s order without a word.

Bucky thanks him anyway. It really isn’t much different than what he should be used to by now. After all the cheerful delivery people that wave at Bucky when Steve orders food, it’s more than a little obvious the man hated serving him just because he’s a cat that could pay for himself. Cats really aren’t supposed to have their own money, aren’t supposed to need or want anything of their own since their keepers or their government provide them with everything they need. He wonders if maybe he should have implied he was shopping for a keeper while he heads out of the BX. He could have checked his phone as if receiving instructions of what to order, but that would be just as bad since cats aren’t really supposed to have phones, either.

“Bucky?”

Bucky stops short, just outside of the automatic doors to the BX and turns around in surprise. “Brooklyn,” he grunts. There’s a large bin of holiday wreaths just outside, filling the air with the sharp tang of pine, and people — all human — continue passing through the double wide doors with their shopping carts into the base’s shopping center. It’s no wonder Bucky hadn’t seen the other cats coming in, distracted as he was with the traffic and his racing thoughts.

Brooklyn has his hands stuffed in his oversized coat, and Pietro grins wide when he follows in the smaller cats footsteps back outside.

“What did you buy?” Pietro asks, leaning far forward to catch a whiff of Bucky’s shopping bag. He’s wearing a cap, holes cut out of the top for his pointy ears, and looks ridiculous. “Did you buy that? Is it chicken?”

Bucky switches the bag handles from his metal hand into the opposite one to keep it away from the prying cat. “I have a base charge card. One of the Winter Soldier benefits.”

Pietro looks up, stunned. “Amazing,” he declares, then asks again, “So, is it chicken? Or Salmon? You have both in there?”

Bucky shows him his teeth in response and Pietro backs up a step, then startles upright when he manages to back into the path of a human’s shopping cart and has to grab his own tail to prevent it from getting run over. Brooklyn shakes his head, so disappointed he doesn’t even have to say anything for Pietro to sheepishly tuck his tail between his ankles and shrug. That cat is going to get himself killed over something stupid, Bucky’s sure of it.

“So, we uh, we came looking for you yesterday. We got to play another game,” Brooklyn says, quickly moving on from Pietro’s foolishness. “I didn’t realize you’d be working on a Sun- ”

Brooklyn’s ears lock forward in surprise when the wind shifts, then crinkles his nose and shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, and Pietro nervously looks away. “I didn’t realize. They going to send you to the CFC?”

“No,” Bucky says. He isn’t really prepared with an excuse, was hoping that he’d be able to simply avoid the others while he waited out his heat, but now here they are. He’s wearing Steve’s scarf over a long sleeve shirt and nothing more but his jeans and his boots, warm enough without a coat. The other cats know that Steve is basically his keeper, they know he carries the scent of that human deep in his fur, but apparently they didn’t quite put the pieces together that Steve is actually his lover.

Pietro’s pointy ears make a confused little circle but Brooklyn snorts sarcastically and his tail shrugs. “Well. Good luck with that,” he says, his tail dismissively flicking aside when he turns back to head inside. That certainly is a whole lot of attitude packed into such a tiny cat, Bucky thinks.

Pietro trots past Bucky to catch up to his companion, hesitates for a moment as the doors slide open. “Mail day,” he says, as if that explains Brooklyn’s snub.

Instead, it just makes Bucky more confused. “You get mail?”

When he was a SCF he never got mail. _Ever._

“Well. Not yet, but we always hope,” Pietro says, before he hurries to catch up to Brooklyn, who continued on without looking back. The automatic doors roll closed, shutting Bucky outside, and he shivers, suddenly feeling the cold.

The whole exchange was strange, but Bucky’s stomach makes a tiny squeal to remind him that he’s far too hungry to give the young SCFs any further thought. He heads home, then eats his way through all of his meals until his jaw aches from chewing.

The knock on his door startles him out of his nap, and he springs from the bed, heart thudding from surprise. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, still wearing his clothes and his mouth is sticky from his massive lunch. It’s early for Steve to be off work, much earlier than he had expected, but he’s hardly going to question it if it means he gets to wrap himself up in that big, beautiful idiot and bounces over his kitchen counter to reach his front door.

As soon as Bucky flings it open something goes terribly wrong.

Steve is standing there, holding a muzzle, eyes dark under the bill of his service cap, the corners of his mouth tight with worry. Bucky freezes when he catches Steve’s scent, and his heart leaps up into his throat before it shatters.

Bucky’s fur stands on end, his lips pull back in an involuntary snarl as that familiar sense of dread slithers across the threshold into his territory, radiating from Steve’s slumped form. The scent is so powerful it immediately goes to Bucky’s head, confusing him, terrifying him, and he feels sick with it. His claws spring out and his pupils slide all the way open, ready for anything.

“Sorry, Buck,” Steve says, and dares to take a single step inside. “I’ve had a hell of a- ”

Bucky warns him to back up with a deep growl, louder this time, making sure he hears it. “Out,” Bucky snaps. “Get out.” Bucky would protect Steve at all costs, would die for him, but this thing in front of him, it isn’t Steve anymore. Is it?

“What? Bucky…”

Bucky drops to all fours, lays his ears down and walks back another few, tentative steps. A deep rumble starts from the pit of his belly as his tail dances behind him, keeping his balance ready to lunge. The thing in his doorway absolutely reeks of Bucky’s remembered enemy, that monster from the pit on Sakhalin. Bucky can almost see Steve’s beautiful face crack open, can almost hear the wet slapping noise of those tentacles, breaking free from the human husk, inky black shadows of the things climbing across the floor towards him.

“Knock it off!” The thing shouts. It’s still standing on the threshold, but now looks worried.

Bucky can smell Steve, underneath all of that wrongness, can smell the human he loves, but those things, that darkness, it’s coming for Bucky and all Bucky knows is that he has to fight it.

“What’s the matter with you? Do you smell him on me? Look the guy hugged me, there was nothing I could do.”

“Out,” Bucky says again, and his claws dig into his brand new carpet and his scruff stands up on the back of his neck. His fear starts seeping into his mouth, wriggling between his teeth like sludge. His lips pull back, and he salivates, struggling to breathe through the thickness in the air. “Get out of here,” he pants. “Or I’ll kill you.”

The thing calls Bucky’s bluff. It takes one step inside, and then another, before it takes off it’s service cap, and in a voice that sounds so painfully like Steve’s tells him, “No.”

* * *

 

Bucky snuggling his fantastic tail by [DeanDraws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/post/159654704350/a-very-special-not-without-you-kickstarter-reward)! This was a gift for supporting the Not Without You project (which finally arrived!) so I'm super excited to share it with everyone! 


	25. Seeded Discontent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This chapter has TWO pieces of fanart! Keep scrolling!
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

“Excellent work,” the President’s Chief of Staff says, signalling the end of the meeting after her last round of questions. Maria Hill nods appreciatively at Private Lorraine as well, after handing off signed approval in a leather portfolio and Steve catches Lorraine’s elegant smile. He feels a rush of pride that his assistant had the opportunity to present her own data analysis to one of the toughest strategists he’s ever met and come out of it glowing with praise.

Pierce himself sits at the far end of the conference room next to Hill, and hasn’t said much while Steve presented the military comms strategy for the Nobel Prize ceremony. Pierce actually seemed a little distracted while Steve went through the slide deck, gold-tipped fountain pen tapping tiny dots along his lined notepad.

Steve has had the honor of presenting to the President of the United States three times in his career. Each time, Steve felt like he did a good job making his own enthusiasm seem authentic, despite how little he cared himself, and Pierce had seemed attentive, engaged, though maybe a little bit indifferent to the value of the department’s work. Steve could never really fault the President for that, since it wasn’t exactly critical foreign aid or combat strategy they were discussing. Just managing optics, like all world leaders have to do from time to time.

In Steve’s case, optics for military actions in particular, so the the bulk of his presentation was spent outlining the speaking topics for the military withdrawal from Russia, defense support for the new ESPO pipeline, China (the smallest talking point, given how little they actually know about China.)

He made sure to end on a high note with a quick recap of the Winter Soldier program, detailing the latest coverage metrics, program approval ratings and shares a few, inspirational quotes from editors at key media outlets. Only then did the President look up, the briefest meeting of eyes across the long conference table, before he went back to his pen tapping.

Honestly? Despite being party to no small number of media circuses surrounding this administration's political image, this is the part that makes Steve feel like a dancing monkey the most. At least the media circus pretends to be interested.

“Thank you,” Steve says to the Chief of Staff, then motions to Private Lorraine, who was also taking down the meeting minutes. “Our office will deliver the playbooks to the head of all the comms teams so that we can align on all major points before we—”

“I heard that our Winter Soldier has been placed in the Fort McNair barracks, Captain,” Pierce interrupts, and all the members of the J5 Directorate, including Director Fury, glance up from their notes. Steve blinks, suddenly scared that every law, every rule, and every taboo that he and Bucky have so aggressively broken, would come spilling out of him onto the conference table.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Steve answers, after that microsecond of hesitation. “Bucky transferred easily to the new housing arrangements.”

“Is he there now?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“That’s a shame,” Pierce says, clicking his tongue. Steve is surprised to see the genuine look of disappointment that crosses his features, given how Bucky reacted the one and only time he’s met the man. Pierce glances up with a warm smile that Steve thinks is a little too personal. “Well, I guess he’s retired from watching your back, after all.”

Steve swallows. No one here knows anything about himself or Bucky, no one here knows who either of them really are, beneath their uniforms and their duty; the soldier, the dancing monkey; the traumatized feline, the functional alcoholic. Steve offers the room a good natured chuckle and brushes off the comment. “I don’t think there’s a whole lot for him to watch out for here,” he says. “Even though sometimes I wish I could tackle PowerPoint with a trained hunting cat.”

Everyone laughs at that. The frustration of PowerPoint is well trod territory, a common enemy that supersedes even the most partisan of politics. Safe enough to joke about, even though Steve catches Fury’s small frown as the Director watches for the President’s reaction.

Pierce nods, saying nothing, while his pen tap, tap, taps and the rest of the room falls into silence. Finally, he leans forward with a contemplative nod. “I’ve noticed that Bucky has started wearing a muzzle in his latest interview. Your choice?”

On instinct Steve opens his mouth to tell the truth, but glances at Director Fury first, unwilling to throw his boss under the bus by admitting he was only reluctantly following orders. He’s good enough at managing appearances to quickly change tactics without missing a beat. “The J5 Directorate thought it was best if we are seen observing all the public ordinances governing felines, considering the scrutiny that the program is under. We wouldn’t want to give the false impression that Winter Soldiers are exempt from civilian laws.”

That’s about the gist of what Fury was getting at while he shouted at Steve the morning after Bucky attacked General Rogers. Somewhere between the colorful swears and exasperated hypothetical questions about Steve’s life choices, he had mentioned something about respecting the law.

So really, Steve’s not entirely full of shit. The Chief of Staff doesn’t look impressed, and Hill raises her razor sharp eyebrow at Steve’s too-easy answer. Of all people who could have sniffed out Steve’s dishonesty, it would be the former Director of the CIA.

Pierce, however, gives a thoughtful nod, considering Steve’s words. “I just wanted to make sure we won’t have any issues at the ceremony. If he’s trained to answer questions about the Wakanda Movement or Black Panther, I want to make sure his words aren’t…” Pierce pauses, gives a meaningful nod. “ _Misconstrued_ through that thing on his face.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Steve agrees. “I understand.”

“That’s what I like to hear!” Pierce says, and closes the cap on his pen with a hard click before he stands. Everyone in the room stands with him. “I’ll look forward to seeing him again.”

Steve finally relaxes as the President and his retinue file out of the conference room, while Fury follows up with Lorraine with some additional personnel to copy when she sends the playbook. It’s always stressful to present to the Commander in Chief, no less so with Bucky’s ominous intuition hanging over their heads. He really should text Bucky before he heads over to Fort McNair, let him know that he was in the same room as Pierce in case the scent winds up clinging to him.

Steve has just slid his laptop from the table when the President suddenly pops his head back into the conference room. “Captain, I’d like to see you in my office,” he tells Steve, then looks meaningfully over to Director Fury, who stood from his seat the moment he reappeared. “If that’s okay with the boss.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Fury says with a stiff nod at Steve, as if Pierce wasn’t being entirely sarcastic about asking his permission. The President gives a friendly wink at Steve that he’s not sure Fury caught, and heads out.

“Private meeting with POTUS,” Lorraine chirps, tapping emphatically into Steve’s calendar through her tablet. “I’ll just go ahead and pencil _that_ into your schedule.”

Steve tucks his laptop under his arm, and catches Fury’s suspicious frown. “Do you know what this is about, sir?”

“No,” Director Fury admits, narrowing his one eye at the closed door. Seeing Fury so obviously uncomfortable with the fact that he’s been left in the dark kicks some adrenaline into Steve’s bloodstream. “I’ll wait for your debrief, Captain.”

Steve drops his laptop off at his desk, gives Private Lorraine the order to distribute the Directorate’s playbook to the Press Secretary, and quickly catches up on the personnel Fury had her add during the meeting. He heads out of the J5 offices with a few minutes to spare, trotting quickly to make the fifteen minute window the President gave him. He has to leave the D-ring altogether and exit the E-ring, then cross the Corridor 8 bridge to reach the Pentagon Library, where President Pierce has set up his office.

It’s unusual for a President to take over one of the smaller offices there, rather than utilize the numerous presidential suites available for his use within every wedge of the building. There is a rumor that he once quoted some famous poet about being an eternal student, but that’s a little too cheesy to believe, even for Alexander Pierce. Steve figures he does it because it’s one of the quietest areas of the entire Pentagon that still has a window overlooking the courtyard garden. That’s where Steve would have his office anyway, if he had the choice.

Steve slows down when he passes through the ultra modern corridor, all shiny polished white linoleum and blonde wood pillars, nods to the librarian on staff, then heads upstairs to the old reference library. Fifteen minutes on the dot, and he comes to a stop at the end of the hall where, of all Secret Services agents who could have been on duty, Jasper Sitwell is posted along with Brock outside of the grand, double doors.

“Rogers,” Sitwell stiffly greets, and Steve could swear he sees the agent’s eyes roll when he pulls open the door for him. Brock remains passively standing to attention, like he’s trained to be, orange striped tail curled around his ankle and hands clasped behind his back. The old, scarred hunter doesn’t wear a muzzle because, like all Secret Service cats, he’s specially licensed to forego it. Steve wonders how Brock can stand Pierce’s scent while it makes Bucky go insane, but he supposes cats eventually get used to it if they are exposed enough.

Either that, or Bucky could still be wrong.

“Agent,” Steve says with a firm nod, keeping up decorum despite Sitwell failing to address him by his rank.

Sitwell closes the door behind him and Steve immediately snaps a seamless salute. The President pushes his own laptop aside when Steve entered the room. “As you were, as you were,” Pierce says, waving it off as he steps out from behind the desk. “This is an informal meeting, Captain.” As if to prove it, he tucks his hands into the pockets of his immaculate gray suit and rocks back on his heels, smiling softly.

An informal meeting? With the President of the United States? Sure.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Steve says with a nod, and suddenly it occurs to him that this is the first time he’s ever been alone in a room with Pierce before. It’s not a comfortable thought.

The office is old fashioned, decorated in the same grand, statesman style of many formal government buildings. Elegantly carved bookcases filled with leather document binders line the room, gold framed portraits on the walls between them. A huge, glossy wooden desk anchors the center of the room, facing an open window. It even smells like a library in a medieval castle, rather than an advanced military archive located on the top floor of one of the most highly secured facilities in the world. Instantly, Steve knows that is the reason the President prefers this particular office while he works out of the Pentagon.

“I just wanted to check in. See how you and, uh, _Bucky_ , were doing.” Pierce haltingly explains, like he’s actually nervous about Steve’s answer, like he cares. Steve is about to give him a scripted, lukewarm response about how important this opportunity is, to share the progress with the Winter Soldier program with the world, but Pierce throws him off when he continues. “Your father has been doing some excellent work for this new pipeline, and when he asked for time off to visit family this weekend rather than secure the materials contract out of Moscow I was surprised.”

“So was I,” Steve blurts out, reflexively honest, then stops himself from saying more. Where is Pierce going with this?

Pierce pulls his hands out of his pockets and takes in a steady breath, gives the bottom of his smartly buttoned vest a tug and plucks at the knot in his striped, ruby tie. “I know what you’re thinking,” he chuckles. “What is the President of the United States doing asking me about my old man?”

Steve swallows and doesn’t deny it. Instead, he waits for some queue before he gives himself away.

“I just know what it’s like, living in the disapproving shadow of your family. My father wasn’t in civil service, and believe me when I told him I wanted to work for the county clerk’s office in Rhode Island he wasn’t exactly impressed. I know General Rogers, he’s a complicated man— ” Pierce pauses, glancing up with his cool grey eyes from under his bushy blonde brows, the same quick meeting of eyes that Steve received earlier, during his presentation. “But I think your work with the humanoid felines has changed him. He’s proud of you, son. So am I.”

Steve’s mouth drops in shock, and even though that little familiar flame of hope sputters in his chest, he can’t help feel suspicion drape across his shoulders, like a heavy blanket. This little speech feels a bit too much like the one Fury gave him, like something a spy tells a mark in attempt to earn their trust.

Thinking about spies reminds him of Natasha, and her gentle teasing that he’d make a terrible one. She doesn’t realize that he hasn’t practiced playing the polite Army Captain for nothing. “Thank you, Mr. President,” Steve breathes out, trying to hide an entirely fictional shy smile before he lifts his chin. “I’m proud too. This isn’t really about that though. This is about giving those cats a second chance at life, after their dedicated service.”

“Of course,” Pierce says with a laugh, probably amused by how quickly Steve can recite words that he himself has spoken in interviews.

Then, before Steve can react, President Pierce pulls him into a brief but firm hug.

There’s a stinging sensation, feather light against his neck. It passes so quickly Steve isn’t sure he felt any pain at all, and before he knows it the President is patting him on the shoulder. Steve looks down at his feet, and has the strangest sensation that he only just stood up.

“Sorry for taking up so much of your time for that little sentimental speech,” Pierce says, catching Steve’s eye with a self deprecating grin. “Just wanted to let you know you’re part of the family now.”

Steve smiles in the awkward pause that follows, then abruptly realizes he’s being dismissed. “Yes, Mr. President,” he says, giving him a formal salute. He’s on autopilot, doing his best just to extract himself while he collects his thoughts. “Thank you.”

Pierce returns his salute and Steve heads out of the office, still a little disoriented by the bizarre exchange. When Fury approached him about his relationship with his father, he hinted at the mark on Steve’s jaw, clearly putting two and two together that General Rogers isn’t the respectable family man that everyone thinks.

Pierce took a different tactic, intentionally stoking that little fire that Steve secretly keeps close to his heart, always reheating the hope that his father could change. It’s like Pierce read much more than just Steve’s mind, and instead took a glimpse into Steve’s most private desires and exposed them to the whole world, cracking Steve open like an egg.

If Pierce was being genuine though, if the President of the United States has talked to Steve’s father about him…

Steve touches his neck, finding it hot to the touch but can’t recall exactly why. He feels embarrassed, exposed, and now he’s starting to feel confused. The President of the United States just attempted to have a heart-to-heart with him. Why? When had Steve ever been on Pierce’s radar before? Pierce was probably just worried about the award ceremony, probably knew all about Steve’s history, his disciplinary actions. Steve’s worries are momentarily derailed when he feels a twinge in his hip, an old pain flaring up along his scar.

...Could it be the President was honestly worried? About him?

A sudden fondness blossoms in Steve’s chest for the President, the man he voted for, the man his father voted for, and Steve decides that Pierce is just trying to look out for him. Part of the family, he had said, with that fatherly glint in his soft blue eyes.

It really is too bad that Bucky hates the man so much.

Steve pauses in the hallway, and glances back at Sitwell and Brock, who don’t acknowledge him at all. It’s annoying, Sitwell is being intentionally rude now, but Steve doesn’t give it much further thought. He heads out, looking forward to spending the rest of his night with Bucky, and puts the rest of the day behind him.

* * *

Steve knows he’s going to lose this fight.

Bucky is stronger than him, faster, and outclasses him in agility by an order of magnitude. With five, razor-sharp claws permanently attached to his left hand, there’s no way to actually disarm him. In those few seconds, standing frozen in shock as Bucky readies himself to attack, Steve calculates only two advantages.

Firstly, he knows Bucky better than anyone, knows how he moves, how he fights, and his few limitations. There’s no hope that Steve could actually win, but at least there’s a tiny window of survival, if he manages to work out a strategy.

Most of all, Steve is convinced that Bucky doesn't actually want to hurt him. If he had, he wouldn't have warned Steve to leave, wouldn't have hesitated, even for a moment. There has to be some part of him that doubts his misfiring instincts, something that tells him Steve is still the man he loves, still the man he trusts and would do anything to protect. Believing this is the only reason Steve managed to stand his ground after Bucky released that courage-shattering roar.

“Buck, it’s me. Don’t you- Don’t you recognize me?” It’s hard to speak past the lump in his throat, and Steve takes one more tentative step inside the apartment. If he could talk the cat down that would be better than a confrontation, but Bucky’s eyes are huge and his ears are dangerously angled back, ready for nothing but a fight. “Buck?”

Bucky launches forward like a rocket.

If the fight moves outside Steve wouldn’t have a chance, so he dives side long into the kitchen, crashing into the cabinet under the sink.

Bucky rifles in mid-air, altering his trajectory, and strikes the refrigerator just after Steve sails past it, rebounds, and is already lunging up Steve’s lap in the split second it took them both to hit the floor. Steve scrambles back as Bucky finds his footing, but his back is against the cabinet door and there’s no place else he can go. He feels the cat’s body heat, pure fury and fire rushing up to meet him, and is immediately overcome.

Steve throws his left arm across his face just in time to block Bucky's gnashing teeth and screams. Sharp fangs pierce through layers of winter coat and uniform alike, as powerful jaws crush his wrist. Pain blots out whatever plan Steve might have had, and he cries out again.

“Bucky! Stop!”

Bucky snarls, then violently jerks his head back, attempting to drag Steve away from the cabinet. The cat needs more room to maneuver, the predator positioning himself behind his prey for a better kill angle. Steve kicks as Bucky tries to tear him away from his cover, but he’s cocked awkwardly on one hip, and his strikes have no power. It’s all he can do just to keep Bucky from ripping his arm off.

A bubble of panic bursts under Steve’s rib cage and he starts to lose touch with his training, with his ability to defend himself. For some reason, all he can think about is when he found Bucky in the Red Room, feral, unrecognizable, attacking on sight from behind those bars like a wild animal. The only thing that stopped him back then was —

— That’s right, that was his plan.

Steve allows himself to feel his primal terror for exactly three more seconds, fighting with everything he has to keep his position against the cabinets, then abruptly stops struggling.

Bucky yanks him forward.

Just as he predicted, as soon as Steve slides across the floor Bucky releases his arm, then lunges to get behind him. Steve ducks and shoves the muzzle onto the cat’s face in the same motion. Bucky slams into the cabinet so hard the blender on the counter topples over, glass pitcher shattering in the sink, and Steve barely manages to fasten the clasps before he throws himself away from the thrashing cat.

As quick as he can, Steve drags himself towards the front door, leaving Bucky to tear at the mask covering his nose and mouth. Bucky practically wages war against the muzzle, momentarily forgetting Steve as his claws rake along the armor, hands scrabbling at the straps on the back of his head. He’s wild, uncoordinated, like the muzzle is driving him insane, like it makes him forget that he’s a person.

“Bucky, please! It’s me! Stop fighting!”

Bucky’s gaze locks onto Steve, his whole body snapping into a rigid arc, and yet again releases the inhuman growl from somewhere deep inside his chest. Bucky’s hair hangs in front of his face like a curtain, his eyes show nothing but thin rings of silver around dangerous, black pools.

Steve should have kept his damn mouth shut. Was this really his entire plan? He thought that once he got the muzzle in place, once he cut off the President’s scent with all those filters, then that would be the end of it. If that didn’t work, then he really had nothing left. Steve tries to force himself up but his left arm, still screaming with pain, collapses beneath his weight and he stumbles back to the floor.

This is it. Bucky is going to kill him.

Bucky dashes forward, barely missing him, then before Steve knows it vanishes over the breakfast bar.

Steve doesn’t have a second to lose, needs to regain some kind of upper hand, but he can’t catch his breath, and his mind races to figure out what to do next without any success. Steve’s eyes tear over the tiny apartment but all he can see is the ruin left of Bucky’s broken cabines, the mess on the counters, all he can hear is the hammering of his own heart and the blood rushing in his ears.

If he didn't know any better, he would have thought he was alone.

Well. That plan sucked. Steve should have run, should have tried to make it to his car instead of regain Bucky’s trust. That dangerous, feline roar was terrifying enough, but not even hearing the cat that he knows is hunting him throws his survival instincts into overdrive.

It’s impossible to picture the sweet cat that purrs in Steve’s lap, that sneezes every time he brushed his teeth from the scent of peppermint, and presses his head into Steve’s hand for ear scratches. It’s equally impossible to picture the sweet man who never indulges Steve’s bad jokes, who sighs so prettily when he is being made love to, who listens to cheap pop music for hours on end, just to hear his sister’s sweet voice.

All Steve knows in this moment, when his life is about to come to an end, is the animal. Steve bites his own tongue, furious that his last memory of Bucky would be of something so unfair.

“I’m not going to fight you,” Steve chokes out, as if he would have stood a chance. “You're my best friend. Bucky?”

Silence. The cat must be stalking him from behind the breakfast bar, but Steve still can’t see or hear anything other than himself.

“Bucky, you smell President Pierce on me because I had a meeting with him. He tried to talk to me about my dad. It was weird, and then he hugged me, and that’s all it was. I swear I texted you about this before I got here. Didn’t you get it?” Steve is babbling now, but he can’t stop himself from filling that ominous dead air with the sound of his own, shaking voice.

There’s a long, agonizing silence, before he hears Bucky’s voice, muzzled and weak. “Is your arm okay?”

Steve nearly collapses in relief.

“Oh, thank god! Yes!” Steve struggles, wincing through a shocking amount of pain as he sits up. He’s on the downward slope of his adrenaline spike, and everything starts to hurt at once: his hip where he hit the floor, his knee where he twisted against the cabinet, his shoulders from Bucky’s savage yanking. His whole body feels washed out, cold, despite how much he sweats. “It’s really nothing,” he lies. “Are you okay?”

“You need to leave,” Bucky says, in a breathy plea.

Steve shakes his head, not really thinking about the fact that Bucky can’t see him either. “Not without you,” he insists, then his chest hitches when he tries to make his case. “I- I thought maybe we could go over to my place. Order that macaroni and cheese you like. With the thick pieces of pancetta.”

Steve can hear Bucky suck in a ragged breath, something that sounds like a laugh. “You’re not going to be able to make up for this one with food,” Bucky sadly informs him. “I need you to leave. Before I smell you again.”

“Ah, Buck…” Steve stalls, slowly working through the pain in his joints as he stands, then retrieves his hat from where it fell next to the fridge. He stares at it, at the gleaming Army insignia and the gold grosgrain ribbon, the blue infantry stripe and the polished, patent leather bill. Somehow, those distinguished details help ground him, help him work through the fear that had turned his guts to water, only moments before.

Bucky remains where he is, because he’s probably doing the same thing, working through his fear, through whatever instinct had told him to attack Steve in the first place, and the thought that he nearly killed the man he loves.

Steve starts talking without much thought, just trying to reach his best friend, hiding on the other side of the tiny apartment. “Do you remember when I first brought you home? You were so scared you hid in the bathroom all night long. You were so tiny, scrunched up behind the tub.” Steve’s burning eyes finally let go, and he swipes at the tears that break free. “You were scared of me.”

“I wasn’t scared of you,” comes Bucky’s weak argument. His voice floats up from where he remains low and out of sight. Steve doesn’t dare move closer, afraid of what might happen if they make eye contact. “I was just scared.”

“You were terrified of me. Terrified of what I would do with you. You weren’t convinced that I was the same person from Sakhalin, not really. At least, you didn’t trust me like you had back then, and you didn’t have any reason to. Even when we were serving together, deployed on the mainland or on the island, you used to flinch when I was short with you. You expected physical discipline.” Steve feels sick saying these words. If he’s being honest, it’s something he’s thought about a lot as he and Bucky grew closer.

“The power I have over you is dangerous. It’s imbalanced. You said it was the same as the power you have, being so much stronger than me, but I never really felt it was quite the same thing. You have a real reason to be afraid of me, of what I could do to you. Of what I could do to all cats, with the position I have. But you were right,” Steve sighs, swipes at his eyes again as tears continue cutting a hot path down his face. “I’ve never been more afraid in my entire life than just now.”

Steve hears Bucky shuffle, willingly giving up his position, and takes that as a good sign that Bucky is no longer stalking him. Steve doesn’t take any chances though, keeping one foot in the space made by the half open front door.

“I just wanted to let you know that it’s okay. Showing me how dangerous you can be. I know you could have killed me just now. I think you would have, if you really wanted to. You didn’t even use those claws at all.” Steve puts one hand on the doorknob, and eases it open, just a bit more. “So maybe I should leave you be for a little while, to let you cool down, like I did the first time I let you spend the night in the bathroom. But eventually it was better that I pushed you a little,” he adds. “Wasn’t it?”

“Not worth it,” Bucky argues. “If you do.” He sounds sick, exhausted. Steve’s heart hurts at the sound, sensing the pain his lover suffers, not allowed to soothe any of it away.

“You’ll always be worth it, Buck,” Steve insists. “Always.”

Steve steps out of the door and closes it as softly as he can manage. As much as he wants to shout and fight and convince Bucky to trust him again, his eyes are burning and his throat is choking off any further attempts to speak.

“I love you,” he says quietly to the door, knowing Bucky can still hear him, and leaves without waiting for a response he isn’t sure would come anyway.

* * *

Bucky listens to Steve’s soft promise through the front door, then follows the sound of the human’s footsteps down the stairs. Bucky doesn’t move from where he’s posted until he hears Steve’s car start up.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, then slowly uncurls from behind the kitchen counter.

As soon as he moves an inch, his whole body starts to tremble. He’s feverish, but not from being in season. The burn in his scruff and his face and his chest is cold fire, pure fear and adrenaline sweeping along his bare skin and souring his mouth. He slowly stands, his tail nervously ticking from side to side, and he takes in a few, deep breaths.

There’s nothing coming through the muzzle, no scent of Steve or the monster he might have become. Bucky has to look down at his metal hand to deliberately retract his claws, then touches his eyes with the back of his glove to blot his tears.

It’s not fair that after everything they’ve been through, with everything they mean to each other, for Steve to appear at his front door, bringing that dread with him, that pure, dripping evil. Bucky continues to stand there for a long time, torn to understand how this is where they wound up. It’s insane, it’s impossible. It’s not _fucking fair,_ and Bucky hates it.

Bucky crosses his tiny apartment to his bed, collects his phone from where it wound up tucked beneath his pillow during his impromptu nap, and scrolls through his texts.

_> >Bucky, I’m on my way._

_> >Had a private mtg with POTUS. Told me he was proud of my accomplishments and hugged me. _

_> >Just wanted you to know._

So. He didn’t lie about that. The timestamps on the texts fit Steve’s story. Bucky’s head is still clearing, his haywire sense of fight-or-flight finally coming back down to normal levels, and he tries to piece together the last time he felt so overcome with that sense of complete wrongness. The last time he had been in a room with President Pierce, when he had first been muzzled and introduced to him, the sense of that monster beneath the surface of his kind, smiling face wasn’t nearly as overpowering as it was just now. It was strong and it was immediately recognizable but Bucky still had ahold of himself.

It was Sakhalin. That is the last time his instincts had screamed so loudly. When they stepped off that elevator in Arnim Zola’s pit, when they saw his little pinched face smiling at them in the sickly glow of his laptop screen. The entire rest of world vanished, Bucky felt like he and Brock and Zola were the only things that ever existed, and all he ever knew was that they needed to kill him. It’s a miracle their training was strong enough to be restrained by the human’s orders, just like it’s a miracle that Bucky didn’t use his claws to tear out Steve’s throat while the human’s arm was in his mouth.

Bucky tries his best to pull his hair out from the muzzle where it got all tangled up under the straps, and closes himself off in his shower. He probably shouldn’t get the thing wet, but he doesn’t care. He needs to wash away all the fear sweat that doused him the moment he opened his front door, and whatever scene Steve managed to leave on him while they struggled.

Steve is probably telling the truth, Bucky decides, scrubbing with a washcloth under the steamy spray. He doesn’t feel any cleaner, so he scrubs harder, until his skin is red and raw and his fingers ache from the effort. If Steve is telling the truth, then Bucky almost killed him for nothing. If Steve is lying, if Steve is actually whatever Captain Ward became, then Bucky shouldn’t have left him alive.

Could he have actually done it? Could he have actually torn through that delicate flesh? Dig into that scent of cedarwood and sage, taste the bitter gunmetal, and watch his precious human bleed out on the kitchen floor?

Bucky remembers the drive that pushed him into attacking the captain in the first place, and lets his forehead thunk against the smooth, fiberglass wall of his shower. “Yes...”

Bucky shivers, chilled by his own sad confession, and turns up the hot water. He stands there for a long time until his tail is soaked and heavy, letting his mind drift, avoiding those hard questions.

Once he’s finally finished, once the water starts running cold and he shivers in the chill of his dorm, he gets dressed and leaves.

It takes him twenty minutes to find the cat barracks. It’s empty and dark, the SCFs likely finishing up their evening chow, but it’s easy to spot the bunks in the back of the massive room with no assigned owner. The mattress pads are bare, but each one has a coarse, thin blanket folded into a neat rectangle over one end. Bucky picks one in the corner furthest from the front door, and drags his fingers over the blanket he finds there. It’s damp to the touch from the cold, pock marked with holes from where nervous cats before him chewed at the wool.

Bucky doesn’t mind. He opens the blanket over his head and curls under it as tightly as possible. He imagines the scent of other cats sinking into him, like pure, white sand through a rusted metal grate, and loses himself in the familiarity and comfort of feeling like he’s finally where he belongs.

* * *

Bucky doesn’t go back to his dorm after that.

Instead, he spends the rest of the week with the other SCFs. Private Lorraine arranged it after he requested the opportunity to train with them, suggesting it would be a good way to keep up with his own training. Steve was the one who approved it of course, but Lorraine was the one who delivered the formal orders to the SCF drill instructor, Sergeant Perez.

Even more surprisingly, the other cats accepted him without comment, didn’t even say a word after he spent that first night in the barracks beneath a stolen blanket. His heat had abruptly ended after his encounter with Steve, so Mac helped him out of the muzzle and he was left to quietly claim the unoccupied bunk and foot locker as his own.

It’s not that he’s ungrateful for his dorm, for his base charge card and all the fine things he received through the Winter Soldier program (his toilet, his sink, and his little shower stall.) It’s just so much easier this way, living like the cat he was born to be, rather than trying to force himself to live in that strange place between the feline world and human privilege.

Bucky quickly learns that Pietro, Brooklyn and the others are young, but highly skilled. Fort McNair’s SCF program is for secondary training, where cats learn a military specialty before deployment. This comes after ten years of introductory general education, like fitness, reading, writing, world history, Japanese, Russian and math, and two years of basic military training. Bucky was shuttled all over the United States for his intro and basic, but wound up at Fort Drum for advanced weapons tactics and sniper training.

Fort McNair trains cats specifically for the Special Tactical Reserve for International Key Emergencies: STRIKE team hunters, just like the ones Brock lead in Operation Lemurian Star.

On an individual level, Bucky outperforms the younger cats in almost every discipline, but he’s pleasantly surprised when he joins them in team-based infiltration drills for buildings in various conditions and learns entirely new strategies. The flooded building was the worst, and they all looked like miserable, wet rats by the end of the day. The school was the easiest, and the cats surprised Sergeant Perez by how easily they were able to identify the active shooter actors from the students.

By the end of the first week, Perez pulls Bucky aside and offers him a job. They just completed a tower exercise, securing a High Value Package hidden on top of an unstable structure in the middle of the woods. It was Brooklyn who managed to snag the black flag, printed with the golden STRIKE emblem. He pulled out the pins on the flagpole and let it crash to the ground, breaking the exercise’s longstanding record for fastest completion. The sun was setting over the treetops from the upstate training grounds, and the rest of the SCFs had already loaded up on the troop transport, exhausted but rowdy from yet another victory.

Apparently, this batch of trainees has been consistently high scoring, and Bucky has a ‘natural aptitude’ for ‘mentorship’. Bucky didn’t really consider the times he fell back to help Brooklyn, or the way he showed Pietro to hold his knife when he slides under a target counted for much, despite the little twist of pride his heart makes when the cats complete their drills flawlessly after his help.

“I just speak the same language,” Bucky comments dismissively, then taps a metal finger tip on his collar. As much as he fits in with the SCFs, the bright red leather marks him apart from the rest. “Besides, I’m not in the military anymore, sir.”

“Pfft,” Perez makes a rude noise and waves, like he’s batting away a particularly meaningless fly. “The DOD would be foolish to waste you,” he argues, and Bucky shuts his mouth. To humans like Sergeant Perez, who worked with felines his entire career, veteran SCFs are nothing but spent bullet casings, waiting to be refilled with gunpowder and loaded back into a magazine to be fired all over again.

It’s a good lesson to learn, as Bucky mentally prepares for serving again, after a fashion, as an undercover asset for SHIELD.

Luckily, Bucky is so physically exhausted by exercises at the end of every evening that he doesn’t have too much time to worry about it. The cats are left to themselves after 8pm, and somehow Bucky’s bunk becomes the hangout spot in the barracks where everyone gathers around to watch YouTube videos on Bucky’s phone. Most of them have never watched TV before, and Bucky has to explain the entire plot of _Feline-1-1_ before they understand why Spanky’s arrest while he’s disguised as a human girl is _fucking hilarious._

Another week passes, and Bucky still hasn’t seen his lover since Steve fled his dorm. They’ve been texting, had a couple of awkward phone calls, but Steve knows better than to show up in person until after they’ve both had a chance to work through whatever it means now that Bucky’s attacked him. Consent is still the most important thing, every time.

Nights without Steve are miserable, lonely, and cold, and for some reason Bucky has started having nightmares about falling, or getting stuck in a sidewalk and slowly sinking in the sticky, wet cement on all fours until he drowns.

After the third or fourth one in a row, jolting awake covered in fear sweat, Bucky notices he’s not alone. It takes a few seconds to struggle through the disorientation of waking up on a solid mattress, not moving, not falling through the void, before he spots Pietro’s huge, pale eyes, glowing in the dark. The young cat tilts his head down as soon as he realizes he’s caught, and the tip of his tail gives a nervous twitch where it lays near his chin. Bucky is sprawled out on his side, and Pietro managed to tuck himself as a little ball within the curve Bucky left in the mattress.

“It’s cold here,” is all he whispers, quietly enough so that only Bucky hears him.

There’s nothing sexual about Pietro’s trespassing into Bucky’s territory. The teenager came in humble, head down, looking only to share some body heat and the illusion of nearness. He leaves Pietro be, and the next time his mattress shifts with the added weight of a second cat in the middle of the night all he does is move closer to the edge of the bunk to make room.

When another Monday rolls around, Bucky can’t help but notice Perez seems to be in a shitty mood. He barks his orders like the cats are deaf, runs them ragged in pointless drills, forces them to march in formation for hours instead of attend their scheduled exercise off base, and disciplines them harshly for the slightest infractions. He even runs a firearms trap, which is a disciplinary test that places rifles in front of the cats and they are given scenarios in which they are allowed to actually touch them. The trap is, of course, that there is no circumstance in which a cat is allowed to touch a firearm, and the ones who fail this are shot where they stood with bean bag rounds. The lesson from Perez is simple: firearms make felines a target.

Bucky forces his arm to lock in place as he shakes with rage until Perez blows his whistle to end the exercise. The beanbag round that hits Brooklyn knocks the small cat off his feet, and Pietro struggles to walk in a straight line after one strikes him in the head. It’s cruel, unnecessary and even though Bucky remembers similar exercises from his training days he hates watching the young cats go through it, trusting that at least one of the scenarios the sergeant in control of their training is an actual correct answer.

It takes a few more days before he finds out why Sergeant Perez is being such an asshole. Apparently, Steve had gone over (way, _way_ over) Perez’s head and denied his request to recruit the Winter Soldier as his personal assistant. That bitterness has no made all the SCFs a target, as if they had all picked up those fucking rifles.

Their days grow longer, more reminiscent of basic training, to the point where they are all too tired to watch the premier of _Feline-1-1_ , when they were supposed to find out if Spanky’s case would go to trial. Bucky remembers drill instructors like this, remembers the strict, lifetime of training that never really ends, even after receiving orders and finally getting deployed. Bucky’s instructors at Fort Drum were brutal too, especially if they were actually angry.

Not surprisingly at all, Brooklyn receives more attention than most, since it turns out he’s just as mouthy with the humans as he is with the other cats. Late in the week Bucky finds him at dinner, nursing a turned ear and offers him a hard clump of snow he brought in from outside. Unlike Sakhalin, the cat’s chow hall is indoors, but isn't all that much warmer.

Bucky drops the ice on Brooklyn’s meal tray after he sits down across from him in a cheap, plastic chair. The smaller cat blinks at it, scowls at Bucky, then picks it up in a napkin and presses it to his scalp anyway. Brooklyn is proud like that, but not stupid. He accepts help from the larger cats, even though he hates it. “Thanks,” he mumbles, one eye closing as the cold soaks through his fur.

Bucky nods, not saying much more, and ignore Brooklyn’s glare when he sits down across from him. The other cats continue walking past the little table at the end of the chow hall line, no one else joining them for dinner. Bucky pokes at the entree in the large compartment of his meal tray, wondering if it’s actually just brown or if his eyes are just too tired to see the color of the sauce properly.

The chow hall is quieter than usual, the cats having just enough energy for a few tired sighs as they gather around their dinners. Pietro is even sluggish tonight, Bucky notices, because he’s started noticing everything his young collection of trainees get up to. This might actually be the first time the impatient cat was ever dead last in line, but after he catches Bucky’s eyes he grins with buoyancy that shouldn’t even be possible after the day they had.

“Hello,” Pietro greets, with a nod for both Bucky and Brooklyn, but mostly Brooklyn. “How are you doing? After that,” he says, motioning towards Brooklyn’s folded ear then he takes a sudden, stiff look around the room, clearly noticing how their table has been intentionally avoided by the others. “Huh. No one wants to sit here since you got disciplined. I guess am not so rude I can’t say hi, at least. Well. Bye.” Pietro pats Brooklyn on the shoulder, and keeps walking.

“Thanks, pal,” Brooklyn grumbles out of the side of his mouth and Bucky snickers. It’s so rude to acknowledge another cat being disciplined out loud, and Pietro is so _very_ loud, but he’s perfectly dense about the normal rules cats operate by. He doesn’t seem self conscious of himself at all, or even notice when Brooklyn’s good ear twists in embarrassment. Bucky can’t help but find the easy way Pietro sails through life to be admirable, like if he only moves fast enough nothing will ever be able to catch up with all that confidence.

“What’s Pietro’s story?” Bucky asks, turning back to dig into his dinner, even though he isn’t quite sure where to start. There’s some celery and carrot sticks in one compartment, and he tries to remember if he ever tasted something so rubbery before. “Where is he from?”

“Some place called Sokovia,” Brooklyn says, poking through his own dish of sloppy reddish noodles, hunting for scraps of meat and ignoring the vegetables completely.

“Ah.” Bucky tries not to cringe. He knows of Sokovia, or knew it at least. Last he heard, it wasn't exactly a country anymore.

“Apparently, his keepers brought him here with his twin sister when their family escaped some military coup after an earthquake wrecked the place, but they couldn't afford to relicense them both with the American CFC.” Brooklyn sips at his carton of milk, washing down the greasy meal. “Pietro drew the short straw, I guess.”

Bucky glances back to the silver haired teenager where he’s joined Mac and Tripp and a few other cats on one of the more crowded tables. That’s quite a story for an American SCF. It certainly explains why Pietro tries so hard to avoid being lonely. Bucky wouldn’t talk to any of these cats about Becca, but he remembers how it feels to be separated from a pair bonded sibling. “And he told you all this, himself?”

Brooklyn snorts. “Try to get Pietro to shut up,” he says with a roll of his eyes, but his tail gives a playful little twitch and he huffs out a fond laugh. Apparently, despite his eccentricities, Pietro managed to become the one other cat Brooklyn actually likes. Bucky has noticed that they sneak off together as soon as training ends, to visit the mail office at the BX every Monday.

“You’re one to talk. You should learn to follow orders,” Bucky tells him, and eats what he’s just decided is supposed to be spaghetti. He’s pretty sure it’s just leftover lasagna filling from the human cafeteria and it makes his stomach hurt almost immediately, but he doesn’t admit it. The younger cats don’t seem to mind, and Bucky figures he just has to get used to eating like this again.

“I follow orders,” the small cat argues with a smirk. “Just not poorly worded instructions.”

“You sure it’s not because you got something to prove?”

Brooklyn plonks his milk carton back down to the tabletop, and fixes Bucky with a withering stare. “Have you seen me? Of course I have something to prove.”

“Not the smallest cat I’ve ever seen,” Bucky states, with an unimpressed shrug.

“Smallest _uncut male_ cat?” Brooklyn says, challenging him with a flash of teeth, and Bucky rolls his eyes at the tiny cat’s aggression and keeps slurping up his spaghetti. Brooklyn’s ears are huge for the size of his head, and the dead-grass color of his fur matches his hair in an unattractive, washed out sort of way. Still, the color compliments his wide, pale grey eyes, and long, thin neck. He must have been a really ugly kitten, but he’s a good looking cat in a strange, waifish sort of way. When the recruiters pulled his license to serve in the military, they must have assumed he would have grown up a little bit bigger than this.

Bucky doesn’t have anything to say to his argument, because Tony Stark was probably the smallest uncut male cat he’d ever met and Tony was at least six inches taller than Brooklyn. Thinking of his friend — even if cats don’t really have friends — makes Bucky depressed, so he pushes that thought aside. “Still. You should be proving it on the battlefield. Not in training. Now is when you want to impress the humans, so you can make sure to get a good assignment.”

Brooklyn puts his ice down, massages his ear with a probing fingertip, and blinks in pain before putting the ice back. “Is that what you did?”

Not even close. Bucky treated training like a game, and managed to get disciplined all the time for lacking ‘ferocity’. There was one drill where they had to hunt and kill rabbits, and Bucky cried, so his drill instructor shot his rabbit and chained him by his collar to a tree overnight. He had been ten years old. Things changed after his father died, and suddenly he realized what it would take to live a life with any kind of freedom. He took his military career more seriously after that, and became the best sniper spotters he could be out of pure spite.

“Sort of,” he finally admits. “I got lucky, too.”

“With Captain Rogers?” Brooklyn says, finally shoveling the rest of his spaghetti into his mouth.

Bucky can’t eat any more of this slop, so he pushes his tray away and side eyes the smaller cat. Brooklyn hadn’t meant it like that, calling out his relationship with the human like it was some kind of special treatment, but it was true. Captain Rogers was different from other humans. Even the nice ones like Private Lorraine touch his ears without a second thought, and dedicated instructors like Sergeant Perez will yank their collars if they don’t make their sprints in time.

Bucky’s never met another human like Steve. Ever. He misses him so much it hurts.

“Yeah,” Bucky confesses. “With Captain Rogers.”

* * *

 Beautiful Bucky in action from [Elithien](https://resinonao3.tumblr.com/post/165201648363/my-incredible-commission-from-elithien-is-now-up)!

 

Steve trapped with President Pierce in his Pentagon library office, by [Hopeless Geek](http://hopeless--geek.tumblr.com/post/163614173577/this-is-another-commision-for-resinonao3s-fic)! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who patiently waiting after that previous chapter's cliffhanger!


	26. Strike Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up! This chapter has TWO pieces of artwork! Keep scrolling! 
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

Steve texts Bucky one more time.

_> Are you sure?_

And waits.

He’s ready to run back inside the J5 offices for his coat and go, but he wants to make absolutely certain that Bucky isn’t just agreeing to come to the media training just because Steve asked, like they are back to where they started, following every one of his requests like a formally issued order. Instead, Steve stares at his phone screen, and continues to lean into the rows of cell phone lockers in the hallway while he chews on his bottom lip.

Six seconds and a progress icon later, he gets Bucky’s response.

_> >Yes. I’m sure._

It’s been over two weeks since Steve left Bucky’s dorm. Over two weeks since Bucky told him, flat out, that he was going to kill him, and then almost succeeded. Steve sighs and puts the phone to his heart when his head tilts back to make room for the unexpected relief in his swelling chest.

Steve carefully returns his phone to the shielded locker, but flinches as he puts the key back in his pocket and his sleeve catches on his bandage. Each one of Bucky’s four, razor sharp fangs pierced coat, uniform and flesh alike to leave ragged punctures in his forearm. He was lucky that he didn’t need stitches or he would have had some awkward questions to answer at the ER, even though it bled badly enough. The real problem is the bruising, the bite’s deep, purple center spreading outwards even as the punctures themselves crusted over and started to heal. Now, the edges are starting to look even worse, a dark nebula expanding into a sickly ring of green and yellow that engulf his whole forearm.

Steve has had a number of injuries over the years, serious wounds earned in either combat or training. He feels no shame in admitting to himself that a feline’s pressure bite _hurts like a fucking sonofabitch_ in comparison. Every joint in his arm aches — from wrist, to elbow, to shoulder. He pulled the muscles in his neck so badly he can’t sleep without a heating pad and his hip is still recovering after tweaking it against the floor when he’d been pinned.

It’s hard to believe that this is what being lucky feels like. After the first day, Steve dared to check in via text, and Bucky told him he decided to stay in the barracks rather than his dorm in the Winter Soldier housing. Eventually, there were a handful of brief, cautious phone calls but it was full of Steve’s stilted attempts at conversation and Bucky’s unspoken apologies. There’s just too much to say that neither of them have the words for, and so they’ve managed to keep their distance.

Despite what he says about cats and friendship, it seems like Bucky managed to make at least a few, going by how excited he sounds when he tells Steve about the young SCFs going through STRIKE training. Steve saw it coming from a mile away that the experienced hunter would eventually become restless as a housecat, so he hopes working with other cats again feels good. Training is probably familiar territory, fulfilling in ways that the endless interviews and promotional appearances could never be. Steve would be a hypocrite if he said he couldn’t relate.

Still, Steve flatly refused when the drill instructor at Fort McNair put in a request for Bucky to stay on in an assistant’s role for the next batch of trainees. Bucky can’t have a job, or responsibilities, or his own life outside of the Winter Soldier program. Bucky has to join the Wakanda Movement, no sooner than Friday’s Nobel Prize ceremony for President Pierce.

Steve tries not to think about it when he collects his things. Lorraine gives him a worried look over her monitor as he hurries through the J5 offices, but he doesn’t stop, or smile, or make his usual attempts to convince the rest of the world that he’s well adjusted.

After spending his nights the past two weeks startling awake from nightmares that he thought he’d forgotten a long time ago, he’s just too damn tired to give a fuck. It’s not just that his dreams have dropped him back into The Hole, or Arnim Zola’s hidden lair within the decommissioned Heat Sink, and it’s not just squeezing himself through that fucking pipe, dragging a bloody leg behind him. The worst of his nightmares are from missions long before Sakhalin. Missions that not everyone walked away from, or worse, missions that no one walked away from except for himself, the lone survivor.

It’s like all the failures he ever made want to make sure he doesn’t forget them, and he’s tired enough that he can’t really figure out how to stop himself from ruminating over them one by one, even in his waking hours, like a miserable checklist.

Steve doesn’t appreciate his brain’s dedication to running constant PTSD errands, but the vacancy Bucky left behind in his day to day sent him adrift, like he forgot how to function on his own. He keeps ordering far more food than he could possibly eat alone, keeps pacing through the different rooms of his apartment, as if Bucky would just magically appear there on the kitchen counter, or in the back room, or under Steve’s rumpled blankets. He watches reruns of _Feline-One-One_ , only to be overcome with guilt after he laughs out loud when Spanky gets arrested, like enjoying anything at all is a betrayal to Bucky’s empty chair.

Even after Steve started showering two or three times a day, scrubbing himself raw with dish soap, the loneliness makes him feel toxic, like a leper. His scar is inflamed from his compulsive washing, cracked and peeling like the clean flesh beneath the keloid is trying desperately to shed his corrupt shell. The nightmares don’t help any as they fill Steve up with guilt, to the point where he feels swollen with it, bursting at the seams.

The thought of facing Bucky again becomes an anxiety that builds up in the bottom of Steve’s stomach like bile. It doesn’t even matter how much the memory of Bucky’s chiming laughter, or the touch of soft fur makes Steve’s heart flutter with want, because at any moment his body might sprout putrid tentacles, just like Zola.

Unfortunately, they don’t have time to keep up the delicate distance. The Nobel Prize ceremony is in a few days and he needs to walk Bucky through his speaking points and give him instructions for how to attend the rehearsals. It all seems so frivolous, but it’s Bucky’s ticket into the Wakanda Movement. Like it or not, they have a job to do.

Steve looks down at Bucky’s texts one more time, heart prematurely racing, as he turns into the small lot by the Winter Soldier housing. Sure enough, Bucky’s black figure stands in a perfect silhouette against the white backdrop of snow on the edge of the parking lot, watching for his car.

Steve tries not to feel anything when he notices that Bucky is wearing his muzzle already, and instead focuses on the fact that he’s wearing the same red scarf he gave him weeks ago. Despite his best efforts to play it cool, Steve’s chest immediately burns when he catches sight of Bucky’s ears, circling towards him in greeting, and that tail, swishing freely behind him. Bucky’s fur is even whiter than Steve remembers, and he figures his full winter coat must have grown in by now.

Bucky holds still, waiting for Steve’s next move, but at least the cat is happy to see him judging from that bouncing tail. It makes it slightly easier to casually roll down the window, like he isn’t at all tempted to fling himself out of the car and embrace his lover on the spot.

“Hey, Buck.”

“Captain,” Bucky nods and moves toward him, breaking free of the fresh snow that had gathered up around his ankles. Steve wonders how long he’d been standing there, waiting, and when Bucky puts his hand on the door handle he hesitates just long enough for Steve to realize that Bucky is probably just as anxious to get this over with.

Bucky climbs in, clicks his belt and waits.

Steve takes a breath, because he doesn’t know what to say, and puts his hand on his keys to start the ignition. All he has to do is bring Bucky back to the Pentagon and walk through the press training with half a dozen other members of the President’s staff. Bucky would wear the muzzle the entire time, then return immediately to Fort McNair. Tomorrow they’ll visit Warner Theater, where the ceremony is scheduled to take place. Easy stuff and a slow start, taking things one day at a time.

“Well, this sucks,” Bucky flatly states, in that straightforward way he has, and Steve manages a weak laugh.

“A little awkward,” he agrees, clinging onto Bucky’s casual opening with a smile before his emotions get the better of him. “I- I missed you.” He winces when Bucky finally turns to look at him, and already regrets it. Bucky’s eyes stand out over the muzzle, bright blue and piercing, narrowed into slits in the white light of the winter afternoon. He looks surprised, or maybe annoyed; it’s almost impossible to tell with half his face covered. Steve hadn’t planned on saying that, didn’t want to ambush Bucky with his neediness the moment they were reunited, but his heart is beating hard in his chest and he feels sick with happiness so he soldiers on. “Are you… doing okay?”

Bucky nods, still watching him.

“How has it been? Training with the other cats?”

“Food’s bad,” Bucky says, and maybe relaxes a little into his seat.

Steve is surprised enough to blurt out an actual question. “You haven’t been buying your own?”

“It’s faster to eat together,” Bucky says quickly, and Steve gets a sense Bucky isn’t being entirely honest.

“It’s… it’s okay if you prefer to eat with them. If you’ve made friends—”

“I told you before,” Bucky says, dropping his gaze to the car’s dashboard and tucking his muzzle into the scarf. “Cats don’t make friends.”

This isn’t going as well as Steve hoped. Is this what it feels like to be in the dog house? Steve hasn’t had enough serious relationships to have ever experienced it, but he was worried that’s what Sam’s judgemental eyebrow tilt would lead to when he got back to the gym. The one good thing to come out of their forced separation has been that Steve’s had a chance to recover some semblance of his old routine, hitting the treadmills early in the morning after long, sleepless nights.

Luckily, he and Sam wound up falling back into their neglected friendship like nothing happened, though Steve gets a sense that if he ditches Sam for months on end again, he wouldn’t be holding his spot on the far corner treadmills anymore.

It’s different with Bucky though, like everything is with Bucky. The cat is rigid with tension, ears rotating outward as he keeps careful track of his surroundings.

“Yeah,” Steve finally says, letting it go. He starts the car and backs out of the lot, onto the track. “Right.”

After a few minutes, Bucky breaks the uncomfortable silence. “I made an appointment with Dr. Simmons after the training. Is that okay? Can you take me?”

“Of course,” Steve says, latching onto the smalltalk. “Everything okay?”

“Dr. Simmons told me that I don’t have to tell you, if I don’t want to.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and then keeps what he thinks of Dr. Simmons to himself. It never occurred to him that Bucky would want to keep any health issues private, even from Steve, but of course the cat is entitled to his own privacy.

Steve settles for hoping that it’s nothing serious, even though it’s almost physically painful not to find a new way to ask again. “Lorraine got her promotion,” he says instead, forcing the change of subject. “She’s a Second Lieutenant now. A bonafide butterbar.”

Bucky’s tail rises briefly in a gentle wave. “She still report to you?”

Steve picks up on Bucky’s little spike of worry. He and Lorraine got along pretty well, all things considered, and Bucky’s referred to her as one of the ‘good ones’ before. He’s probably worried she’d be replaced with another human he’d have to get to know all over again. Too many things changing all at once for them both.

“For now,” Steve says, honestly. “She’s training for an upward trajectory for her career of course, taking on additional responsibilities for the department. We’ll gain headcount next year when the budget passes and probably get some new faces around the J5 that can back fill her assistant role.”

“Hm,” Bucky says, but that’s it, and their conversation quickly dies out.

After a slightly too long silence, Steve tries to resurrect it. “Somehow I managed to get put in for Major.”

Bucky just hums again, apparently just as unimpressed with that as Steve.

The disciplinary hold on Steve’s rank has ended, so now he’s finally able to move beyond an O-3 Captain. He was surprised at first, having lost track of when his probation ended, but now the thought of a promotion only reminds him of the years he’s committed to serve. It’s hard to imagine six more months, let alone another ten _years_. President Pierce’s second term will be up long before then, and the next POTUS, whomever that may be, might have their own ideas about SCFs, Winter Soldiers and whatever it is Steve’s relationship with Bucky has turned into.

Whatever Steve himself has turned into.

“Steve,” Bucky says, and Steve realizes he’s been spacing out, driving on autopilot back to the Pentagon. The traffic isn’t bad so early in the afternoon, and they’re already almost there. “I think you’re still you. I know it. I just want to be careful for now. I was busy the last couple of weeks, and it made it easier, but it was still- ” Bucky stops to swallow, shakes his head. “It was still hard. To be apart. You don’t have to worry about us.”

“I’m not- ” Steve stops himself from making a stupid lie, because of course he is and of course Bucky could tell. “Yeah,” he says instead. “Yeah, Buck. It was hard, but... I mean, if you say so. I’m kind of taking your lead on this.”

“You trust me that much? After…”

“Yes,” Steve nods, and without knowing why adds, “more than I trust myself, right now.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything more after that, and Steve doesn’t really have the heart for any smalltalk for the rest of the trip. It’d be a waste to discuss the weather or training or anything else that wasn’t meaningful in the brief privacy of their drive from Fort McNair. It’s a different kind of waste to remain unnaturally silent, with Bucky trapped behind his muzzle and Steve too cowardly to ask any harder questions, but here they are.

The Pentagon garage isn't empty by the time Steve pulls into his spot. The general flow of traffic continues around them as it does during all hours of the workday, completely apathetic for their need of a quiet moment alone to make sense of everything. Steve leaves the engine running when he turns to Bucky, hoping that makes it look less odd that they are still sitting in his car to whomever walks by.

“I love you,” he says, because he has to say it at least once before they have to go back to pretending like they are nothing but keeper and cat. “Nothing’s changed.”

“I love you too,” Bucky says, his eyebrows drawn up high with an emotion Steve still can’t quite read through the muzzle. “But if you think nothing’s changed…” He shakes his head. “I can tell it has, even if you can’t.”

“I don’t understand,” Steve says, and his scar flares up with a maddening itch. He must still stink with whatever drove Bucky away in the first place, but can Bucky smell it through the muzzle? Still? Suddenly, Steve isn’t so sure he can’t. “What’s changed?”

“Why don’t we get to the training?” Bucky says, and unlatches his seatbelt.

“Wait,” Steve says, taking ahold of the strap before it retracts across Bucky’s chest. “Please. What’s changed, Buck?”

Bucky looks down at Steve’s grip on the seat belt, ears flicking back in a warning before he brings them forward. Steve swallows and gently releases the buckle, regretting his impulse to try and restrain him.

“Sorry.” His stomach won’t stop roiling, but he has to at least try to figure this out. He didn’t spend so long being so miserable, just to let them walk away from each other without knowing why. “I just. I want to understand. I want to know what I can do about it, to make things go back to the way they were.”

Bucky’s shoulders drop and he chuffs into his muzzle, a great, rumbling huff that only cats and steam engines can produce. Steve’s only heard Bucky do that when he’s completely exhausted, or extremely pissed off. The cat’s ears circle around as a car passes by, following the lane to the next level up where there’s more open spaces, while Steve waits helplessly for his answer.

When Bucky reaches across the space between them Steve flinches on impulse, and Bucky’s hand stops as the wall of tension goes up between them. It’s awful. Steve isn’t afraid of his own lover, he _isn’t,_ but maybe this is what Bucky means when he says things have changed. Bucky’s expression hardens and he pushes right through that invisible barrier, then brings Steve’s face towards his own, guiding him with a soft brush of his metal knuckles. Bucky’s kiss is strange, locked behind a panel of hardened carbon fiber, but Steve melts into it anyway, and when they finally part Steve knows the cat is smiling.

“Don’t give up,” Bucky tells him, advice so quiet that Steve can barely hear it, even as close as they are. “I’m with you. We’ll always be together, even when we’re not.”

The gentle promise is enough for something inside Steve to finally come alive, and he fumbles for Bucky’s hand, holds it there against his cheek before the cat can pull it away. Another car rounds the corner and Steve presses a hurried kiss into the underside of Bucky’s wrist before he finally lets him go.

“Thank you,” Steve says, sniffles twice before he laughs at what a mess he is. It’s easier than thinking about how Bucky’s words sounded like a goodbye. “Let’s uh, let’s get to the training. Long day ahead of us.”

* * *

It isn’t just a scent that tells Bucky when Arnim Zola is near. It isn’t just that familiar tang that hits the back of his throat, that sickly poison that drags him right back down the hole on Sakhalin, to the night that changed his life forever. It’s a feeling of dread that crawls over his skin and makes his scruff tingle, makes his blood go hot and his heart beat hard enough to tell him he’s in mortal danger. It’s outside of his normal senses, outside of taste and sight and sound and scent and touch.

It’s a deep, primal urge that tells him he needs to _survive._

It’s better with the muzzle, he realizes when he stops by his ruined dormitory that morning. It’s even better still with the muzzle snuggled deep into the folds of Steve’s red scarf, that he rolls himself into after doing his best to tidy up the place. Regardless, he gets a sense that something is off. Not just the violently splintered claw marks that ruined his cabinet doors, or the black splash of Steve’s blood left on the kitchen linoleum.

That same thing that turned him away from his own, tiny territory seems to have lingered long after Steve had left, and the muzzle only just makes it bearable. It’s a shame. He really started to like this place.

Bucky empties the trash, which had started to go foul after two weeks left in the can, along with the not-so-fresh food left in his small refrigerator. It’s pointless to head back to the SCF barracks now, so he just waits outside, even though it’s early. It gives him time to clear his mind, to let his thoughts drift along the clean white snow, gathering around the edges of the yard. It’s doesn't feel like long before he spots Steve’s car, but he already can’t recall what he had been so transfixed on, spacing out and letting himself pick up a chill.

Steve turns off the engine and rolls down his window, and Bucky hates how long they waited to do this. Steve’s smile is radiant, his bright yellow hair a tousled mess. He hasn’t been sleeping properly, Bucky can already tell, but he’s still just as beautiful as always. Bucky’s sinus opens up despite the heat of the muzzle, his instincts insisting that he needs to smell his human now that he’s laid eyes on him. He picks up nothing through the filters, but that’s probably a good thing.

“Hey, Buck.”

Bucky is almost there when it hits him, before he even touches the door handle. The same sense of wrongness, the nudge against his sensitivity to Zola that he experienced in the apartment, except it’s radiating out towards him.

“Shit,” he curses quietly into the muzzle, and gets in the car anyway.

* * *

Steve tries his best to give Bucky space as they trudge through the shockingly dull media training. They spend all morning reviewing the president’s key touch points for the ceremony, highlighting potential questions the media will ask about every single one of Pierce’s military policies, and reminding the room which topics will remain classified until after the gala, meaning their answers with the press have to be deflective and never, ‘no comment.’

It’s all-hands-on-deck for this sort of event, and the room is full of the J5’s top military comms strategists, all working together to ensure that the entire administration’s military policy is communicated effectively, but carefully controlled. No one wants the media asking questions about how many US troops were just killed trying to protect the new ESPO pipeline, or why Japan is suddenly expanding their number of bases along the Southeast border with China.

Bucky is quiet but attentive the whole time, especially when Steve goes over the Winter Soldier program explicitly. The rest of the staff know that any questions about it have to go through Steve himself, or Lieutenant Lorraine, if Steve is unavailable. Bucky has three main topics he can cover by himself, including how the President’s efforts make him feel (sincere and humbling), what he thinks about the future of the program (long-lasting and impactful), and what this means to the humanoid feline community (ensures that they continue to be seen as valued participants in the human military.)

Bucky recites his prepared statements effortlessly, even though there’s no way to make it sound natural, coming through the vents of his muzzle. Steve wonders if this is what Pierce meant when he said he didn’t want Bucky’s words misconstrued when he wears it, but Steve doesn’t dare tell Bucky he needs to sound more energetic while talking about how little relevance the Wakanda Movement has to patriotic SCFs.

Really, the whole exercise feels about as meaningful as installing a screen door on a fucking submarine.

Over three hours later, still trapped in the J5 conference room, Steve finally hands off the meeting to Lieutenant Lorraine who walks through everyone’s schedules. Bucky is given a paper handout with the night’s agenda, since he won’t be allowed to have his phone at the event and Steve watches him carefully fold it up and tuck it into his wallet from the other side of the conference table. He’s wearing civilian clothes, a thick button down and a soft hooded jacket, and Steve can tell his tail had been brushed out that morning. He wishes he could steal just one more moment alone with him, but knows when to keep his distance.

Bucky doesn’t normally relax when he visits the Pentagon, but his body has been loaded with tension all day, ears angled sharply behind him, fists planted in his pockets and tail wrapped neatly around his boot. Steve’s red scarf hangs off the back of Bucky’s chair, along with Bucky’s own very expensive Burberry coat. Steve thinks back to the first few weeks of their press tour, when all those stores invited Bucky for fittings. At first, he wasn’t sure about letting them use Bucky as a poster kitten for their designer feline fashion, but the cat reveled in being spoiled with clothes that were, for once, meant for his body. Steve misses seeing him so excited and happy over something as simple as a pair of jeans designed with gussets in the waistband so they don’t pinch when he quads.

Steve can hardly believe how complicated their lives felt back then, when it had been so peaceful compared to this.

“Captain Rogers?” Lorraine says again, and Steve looks quickly away when Bucky catches him staring.

“Yes! Thank you, Lieutenant,” he says, recovering some semblance of his attention span. “Thank you everyone for your time. I’ll be walking through rehearsals tomorrow, and have any updates sent out by end of day.”

Bucky hangs back as the others file out, managing to avoid eye contact with everyone else until Lorraine sneaks a scratch in behind his ear. “How’re you doing, hon?”

“Oh. Good. Thank you, ma’am.”

Lorraine smiles, the little curled corners of her mouth taking him into their confidence. “No need to thank me. I was happy to do it. Has Sergeant Perez been keeping you busy?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky says, and for the first time sounds a bit like his old self, his tail lifting briefly as his ears swivel towards her.

“Good! You were going to get a little too beefy if Steve kept letting you laze around the office.” She winks at Steve when she says this and Bucky coughs, trying to hide his laugh.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” Bucky says and she beams with pride, but Bucky ruins it when he continues with, “Steve says you’re a butterbar now.”

Steve’s jaw drops, because here he is feeling sorry for himself all fucking day and Bucky just threw him under the bus so that he could keep flirting with his assistant, the total _brat._ So much for cats never turning on their own.

Private Lorraine’s smile curls towards Steve. “Does he now?”

Steve gives her an unapologetic shrug. Calling a freshly minted lieutenant a ‘butterbar’ isn’t _exactly_ an insult, between friends. “Can’t take the heat, Lieutenant?”

“I see you still have your bars, sir,” she simply observes, pointing out that he isn’t yet promoted himself, for the fifth year in a row. Majors wear golden oak leaf insignias, rather than the twin silver bars of a captain. “They just too good to give up or something?”

“Or something,” Steve snorts at her playful jab, surrendering quickly, hands up in defeat.

Lorraine gives a friendly laugh, but stops to scratch behind Bucky’s ear again before she leaves the room. Bucky leans into it when she drops a kiss on the top of his head, tail bouncing up without any shame at all. Jealousy hits Steve hard, dropping into his gut like a heavy stone that has no business being there.

“What?” Bucky says, when they are alone again, ears all round and innocent as a halo.

“Nothing,” Steve lies, and quickly closes his laptop before Bucky could question it. Suddenly it’s awkward again, without Lorraine’s sunny presence giving them an excuse to tease each other. “Um. What time was your appointment?”

“Sixteen hundred,” Bucky reminds him, in a tone that says he knows a deflection when he hears one, but he doesn’t push. Instead he looks away briefly, like he’s carefully considering his thoughts before he continues. “The mess hall food has been making me sick. I don’t really know why. The others don’t seem to have a problem with it.”

“Aw,” Steve blurts out, imaging Bucky miserable and cramping, like how he wound up the first week he spent alone in Steve’s apartment, raiding the fridge for cheese and raw eggs before he learned how to properly fix himself a meal. Steve takes the tiny confession like a gift, realizing that Bucky is trying to show him they are still together, like he keeps saying. “Do you want me to talk to-”

“No, sir,” Bucky quickly interrupts. “It’s not- I mean, I don’t need you to fix this. If it’s not making the other cats sick then it’s just me. Dr. Simmons will know.”

“Sure.” She might not, Steve cynically thinks, but doesn’t argue. Steve knows the kind of food that the cats were fed on Sakhalin, and thinks Bucky just isn’t used to eating all those sloppy leftovers from the human mess hall, stuff never balanced for a feline diet to begin with. Maybe Steve should get Bucky some bottled protein shakes, so that he doesn’t have to worry about filling up on all that salty junk food. He watches Bucky carefully wrap the red scarf around his throat, tucking the ends into his jacket as he gets ready to leave, and sadly realizes that there’d be little point to giving Bucky anything for the time being.

The cat wouldn’t even use his dorm anymore, just because Steve had been in there.

“Ready?” Steve says, tucking his laptop under his arm. “We better get going, traffic’s going to be FUBAR.”

Bucky hesitates before he nods, ears drooping. He’s just as aware as Steve that this isn’t going well. “Sure.”

* * *

Dr. Simmons is not in the examination room when Bucky gets to the VA so he sits on the crinkly paper covering the padded table and tries to keep his hands to himself. There are so many instruments lining the small counter, tall glass vessels with plastic wrapped swabs and metal tools, nothing locked down, or hidden from the patients that come through. He wonders if it still has that overpowering antiseptic smell as his first visit, or if it now smells more like Dr. Simmons herself, or even other cats she must now be treating.

Bucky’s glad the VA isn’t at all like the CFC’s medical bays, all cold stainless steel and sterilized with bleach. Those horrible rooms had no windows, no soft surfaces like the table with its raised back and headrest, and certainly nothing the cats could have used as a weapon, like the tray laid out with a series of various sized scalpels, still in their little plastic envelopes.

The tip of Bucky’s tail taps against his ankle while he looks around, and he vaguely thinks this might be what human examination rooms also look like, before he puffs a bored sigh into his muzzle. The walls are well insulated enough, but that doesn’t stop him from casually overhearing a few conversations here and there. A few rooms over, someone is getting bad news about their liver. A human kid in the waiting room won’t stop crying, and he feels sorry for Steve, stuck there with it. Raised voices, much further down the hall, are arguing over something about ethics and politics. Bucky tries to tune out until he suddenly recognizes that one of those angry voices is Dr. Simmons herself.

Bucky’s hackles rise, his scruff almost burning with the urge to go investigate. He steps carefully to the closed door of the examination room, ears straining to catch the rest of the distant conversation over the other noise in the building. The guy with the liver problem needs to stop drinking so much, the child is still crying, someone drops a heavy stack of papers and swears. Meanwhile, a man’s soft voice and Dr. Simmons keep heatedly discussing something she will ‘not be party to’ but she sounds like she’s on the losing side. Dr. Simmons is nice, and Bucky gets a sense that she can take care of herself, but she’s also very small, and if it turns out someone is actually threatening her…

Bucky’s ears go back when he hears a door slam in anger, and Dr. Simmons tells the man she was arguing with that she’ll be ringing Major Wilson, and that’s the end of it. She’s angry, but not threatened, and Bucky probably shouldn’t get involved with whomever is walking this way. It’s just his luck that those footsteps stop right in front of Bucky’s room and he takes a few, cautious steps back, putting the corner of the padded table between himself and the door.

There’s a quiet knock, and the same voice that had been arguing with Dr. Simmons softly says Bucky’s name like a question, like Bucky could possibly tell him to fuck off instead of opening that door and letting himself inside. The man waves through the part in the doorway, gives him a friendly smile that crinkle up the corners of his bright eyes. Bucky hates that he’s still muzzled, unable to scent the newcomer, and stays put in the corner of the room.

“Hello,” the man says, his voice still just as measured and soft as when he had been arguing with Dr. Simmons. “My name is Phil Coulson. I’m the director of an organization called—”

“Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division,” Bucky recites, unimpressed. “I know. Captain Rogers briefed me about you.”

Coulson’s smile is more like a compulsive twitch, and Bucky knows already that it’s fake. “We can just go with SHIELD,” he says with a soft laugh. “Good job though. I think a lot of people kind of just trail off after _‘Homeland_.’”

Coulson pauses, as if he’s waiting for Bucky to loosen up after the overly self-deprecating comment, but Bucky just crosses his arms, intentionally flexing the metal one so that the plates loudly shutter closed, and waits. Coulson clears his throat, and smiles again.

“I have some questions for you, and some tests I’d like Dr. Simmons to run, while you’re here.”

Tests? Like the kind Dr. Lukin liked? Burning injections and leather restraints and feeder tubes going down his nose? Bucky doesn’t move, but something must have given him away because Coulson immediately puts up his hands.

“Nothing too invasive. Just some bloodwork, if that’s okay with you.”

“Where is Captain Rogers?” Bucky asks, ignoring the man’s obvious lie about having any choice at all in the man’s experiments. Bucky turns his ears back but he can’t hear Steve, doesn’t know if he’s still in the waiting room or not. Undoubtedly, if someone had tried to forcibly remove Steve Rogers he wouldn’t have gone quietly, but that doesn’t stop Bucky’s already racing heart from picking up speed at the thought.

“You know, I haven’t seen him yet today. Speaking of Captain Rogers, I had a few questions for you,” Coulson smoothly continues, effortlessly failing to answer Bucky’s question. Bucky thinks of the scalpels, only a few feet away, and measures the distance to the door. The room is small enough that if he took the wall at the right angle, he could probably grab one and not even touch the floor. Once behind Coulson, he could kick the human forward, sever his achilles tendon, and make a break for it. “How have things been? Between the two of you.”

“He treats me well, sir,” Bucky obediently answers. If he makes it to the waiting room, he could cover Steve while they flee. He should probably grab two scalpels, if he can. He may have his claws, but Steve is completely unarmed.

Coulson nods, and makes a sound of general acknowledgement without looking like he actually cares about Bucky’s answers. Something about his non-confrontational manner makes him seem all the more confrontational, and Bucky is already on edge since he can’t even smell the man. He’ll have to move fast, if he’s going to avoid hurting him any more than he has to in order to make his escape.

Bucky rotates where he stands, just enough so that he has a better angle to reach the far wall if he were to jump, before Coulson suddenly asks, “Have you ever exchanged body fluids with Captain Rogers?”

What the fuck.

“What the— Sir?” Bucky is just thrown off enough to forget about escaping, because suddenly he’s picturing Steve on his knees, face tilted up with a pleased expression, eyes glistening with lust as he swallows. “No, sir.”

“Really?” Coulson says, obviously unconvinced. “Not once? Never shared a water glass? Or maybe some blood back when you served together, after being wounded perhaps?”

Bucky opens his mouth to tell him no, even louder, but halts, mid-lie. “Maybe. On Sakhalin.” Bucky and Steve had both been a lot more than just _wounded,_ Bucky himself mangled by a grenade before he went back down into the hole to retrieve the dying Captain. That wouldn’t be information he’d offer freely, but Steve himself likely reported these details in his own debrief. Bucky wouldn’t want to contradict him, and it’s true, they likely bled all over each other while they were trying to keep warm. “We both got hurt after we got trapped. Both of us bleeding. There could have been… I guess. Sir.”

Coulson nods several times without saying anything at all, then sucks in a breath through his nose. “Well, that sounds like it might count.”

“Count for what, exactly? Sir.”

Coulson shrugs. “Can’t say for certain,” he says, not even bothering to hide the deflection. “I’m just glad we’ve had this opportunity to work with you directly. Speaking of which.”

Coulson suddenly reaches up to Bucky’s face, to drug him or grab his ear or punish him with some new and creative invention from the CFC, and for the first time in months, Bucky panics.

* * *

Steve has his chin firmly planted in his hand as he scrolls through his phone, bored to tears. Bucky’s appointment seems to be taking longer than it has any right to be, and for some reason the kid that started crying the moment he sat down is still at it. After half an hour, the sound managed to pierce through his right eye and blossom inside his skull into a full blown headache, and Steve winds up sinking further back into the springy waiting room chair. They are all odd sizes, too wide to sit in like a single seat but not very soft. Instead, the plastic upholstery seems to be designed for maximum cleaning efficiency and also crinkling, and every time he moves it makes an unattractive _squeak_. Plus it’s mint green, and looks like it belongs in a dentist office. Steve doesn’t know why exactly that’s so annoying, but it is.

Another fifteen minutes go by, and Steve texts Bucky to make sure everything is alright. According to Here Kitty, Bucky hasn’t moved from one of the back examination rooms, and Steve is left chewing his lip, wondering if Bucky’s stomach issues are actually more than just bad food. What if he has an ulcer? What if it’s anxiety over Steve, still smelling like President Pierce? Do they even make valium for cats?

“Steve?”

The paranoia and all of Steve’s anxious Googling will have to wait. He looks up and finds Sam, cap tucked under his arm and breathing hard, like he just ran here. Nothing about his expression is okay. “Sam? What’s going on?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Sam says, his whole face pulling down in an uncharacteristic frown. “Dr. Simmons called and asked me how we agreed to give SHIELD access to her patient files. Apparently, there’s some agent in there now trying to get her to do unnecessary blood work and won’t tell her why.”

Steve is already halfway to the main door, receptionist barking at him to stop, before Sam is finished explaining. Bucky doesn’t know Director Coulson or Natasha, and if they sent some other stranger then he most definitely wouldn’t trust whatever it is they wanted to do with him. If it involved medical tests that Dr. Simmons is already uncomfortable with, Steve couldn’t imagine Bucky reacting well.

Only how well would he react to Steve being there, if his muzzle has already been removed? Steve halts mid-stride and Sam has to grab him by the shoulders before they could collide. “What the hell, man?”

“Bucky’s muzzled, and if he—” Steve spins back around when a man in a suit comes sprinting into view. He takes the corner too fasts and skids into a supply station, dragging a wheeled cart to the ground with him, medical supplies scattering across the floor with a crash.

“Director Coulson?” Steve starts forward to help, but he’s already scrambling to his feet, desperate to keep moving. Just as he falls back into a sprint towards them, eyes huge with fear, Steve sees why. Only two heartbeats behind Coulson comes Bucky, leaping effortlessly along the wall to avoid the mess on the slick linoleum.

“Whoa…” Sam flatly whispers, as the heavy cat rebounds off the corner easily six feet off the floor, as if he weighs nothing at all, to cut his prey off in mid-air. “ _Steve!”_

“I fucking _see it!”_ Steve cries helplessly, backing up a step.

Coulson doesn’t make it.

Bucky leaps off the wall, falling in a crescent around Coulson’s shoulders, and flips him ass over teakettle to the ground with knees in the man’s back and metal arm locked around his throat. The whole thing is over in a fraction of a second, Coulson gagging wetly under Bucky’s weight before Steve even has time to react.

“Bucky, stop!”

Bucky either doesn’t hear or just flat out ignores Steve’s plea. His back is to them and he raises his claws for a strike, a flash of silver lightning cracking above Coulson’s prone form. Steve lunges forward and desperately grabs ahold of Bucky by his collar. He yanks back as hard as he can and stumbles into Sam, who appears behind him as an anchor, helping him haul the powerful cat to the floor. Bucky shakes them both off with a single toss of his shoulders and flattens himself against the wall, ready to spring again, then freezes when his eyes meet Steve’s.

His tail drops, ears go up, and he nearly lowers his chest to the floor as his eyes go round with shock. “Steve…”

They’re both sprawled out on the floor, Steve practically in Sam’s lap with arms thrown out wide to protect him, just in case Bucky lashes out at again. Luckily, the cat is still wearing his muzzle, but Steve isn’t sure what set him off, and can’t risk Sam getting hurt. Bucky’s wide, flabbergasted eyes dart from Coulson, still hacking into the floor, back to Steve as he frantically pieces together the connection. Then he puts his own hand to his throat, like he only just now notices the pain from his collar, and rubs the angry red mark that crosses the pale skin below his muzzle.

“What’s going on?” He asks, then backs into the wall even further when his voice cracks, startled by the sound he himself makes. His hand goes to his throat again, like he’s still trying to understand why it hurts, then looks back at Steve, just as lost as he is betrayed. “What do they want?”

Steve slowly unfurls, at least getting his legs under himself as Sam backs up. “It’s okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice gentle as he settles on his knees, catching his breath. Bucky startles back when Dr. Simmons appears from around the corner, trying to step over the mess from the med cart, mouth dropped in shock as she takes in the chaos. “It’s fine, Buck,” Steve says, trying to grab his attention when he sees the fur on his tail start to stand back up in panic. “You’re not in trouble. Claws in, buddy.”

Bucky glances down at his metal hand, claws entrenched in the floor, and yanks them free, pulling up an entire square of linoleum with them. He sits down hard on his rear, shakes the heavy plastic stuck to his fingers, and it falls with a slap when he retracts them free. He looks up sharply at the sound, checking on Dr. Simmons first, then Steve, like he’s making sure that he’s properly following the instructions.

“That’s better,” Steve assures him, still smiling. Bucky’s tail has smoothed out, resting easily around the cat’s ankles after he draws his knees up to his chest, and watches the humans in the hallway get to their feet. “Much better. Let’s, um. Let’s have a conversation. Okay?”

“I’d say that’s a good plan, Captain Rogers.” Bucky’s ears circle up to Coulson, who continues to favor his left arm, holding it in close to his middle as he slowly recovers. Steve follows Bucky’s meaning clearly, reading the nervous twitch in the tip of his tail and the way his face shies away from Coulson’s tight, miserable smile.

“I’ll take the Director here into the waiting room,” Steve intercedes, drawing Bucky’s skittish attention back to himself. “Dr. Simmons can get you situated again. You had some questions for her, right?”

Bucky nods at the reminder, and rubs his throat again. “Yes, sir,” he says, voice hoarse.

Steve hates knowing that what he did, and that violent ‘physical discipline’ is going to leave an ugly mark. Still, he figures that whatever it takes to keep Bucky from being killed by CFC enforcement is worth it, while at the same time considers he’s only telling himself that to stop the guilt from gnawing at him.

“Director Coulson?” Steve says, waving him closer. “Let’s go outside for a minute. We can get out of the doctor’s way. She probably has tons of appointments lined up. That sound okay with you, Dr. Simmons?”

Dr. Simmons nods once, before screwing up her nerve to speak again. “Yes! Yes, very much so.”

Director Coulson walks stiffly past Bucky, doing his best impression of bravery even as the cat remains scrunched up, small as he can make himself, in the narrow door jam. Steve wants to go to him, wants to gather him up in his arms until he stops shaking, but he knows when Bucky needs space and most of all, knows when Bucky needs space from _him_. If the cat’s already panicked from whatever the hell tests Coulson wanted to run, then Steve’s lingering Zola-scent won’t do them any favors.

Steve tries to keep his movements slow and deliberate as he ushers both Sam and Director Coulson back out of the hallway, making it clear with his body language that he’s not angry or upset because he knows Bucky is watching. Before the door swings shut, he gives one last glance over his shoulder to catch sight of Dr. Simmons, kneeling down to Bucky’s level, urging him back to his feet in soft tones.

Then magnetic connection between them pulls taut, and Bucky also looks up. Their eyes meet for the space of half a second, only a flicker of recognition crossing Bucky’s face before he drops his gaze to the floor and touches his throat again, like the sight of Steve is nothing but a reminder of the recent pain. Bucky’s ears draw a circle back to Dr. Simmons, and he slowly stands up straight. Steve lets the door back to the waiting room close behind him, and tries not to feel the ache in his chest.

The angry receptionist is there, along with a security guard who doesn’t look like he knows what to do with all the high ranking military uniforms that emerge. Steve’s JCS badge is usually enough, but Sam is also in full dress, his Major rank standing out bold and shiny on his lapels. Director Coulson is the one that sends the guard away, and placates the receptionist with promises that the scuffle inside was just a misunderstanding. He uses her first name, _Theresa_ , like they were old friends, and Steve bites his tongue even as Sam picks up on the tension between them going beyond Bucky’s attack.

Director Coulson even manages to wheedle his way into the enclosed room that the receptionists use as a back office, shutting the door with his apologies before turning on them both. “Alright, Captain Rogers. I hear you like baseball.”

Steve shares a look of confusion with Sam before he dares to answer. “Sure, sir. Big Mets fan.”

“Mets!” Coulson sounds scandalized. “Well, I’ll admit I’m old fashioned. I have a bat at home, signed by Frank Robinson and Mickey Mantle. Prize of my collection.” Coulson just stands there for a moment, leaning casually against a table that holds the receptionist’s computer and a printer, and Steve waits for the other shoe to drop. “Bucky, too?”

There it is, the harmless tone that Steve already knows is leading towards something dangerous. “Yes, sir. Though I’d hardly call what cats play baseball. They seem to enjoy themselves.”

“Great!” Coulson celebrates with an easy sigh. “Then he’ll understand what I mean when I say that this is strike two.”

_Fuck._

Sam’s eyes narrow, and he gets that look on his face he always has right when he’s about to call Steve out on his bullshit. “What was strike one?”

“Attacking General Rogers,” Coulson primly tells him, raising his eyebrows at Steve as if to say, ‘did you think I forgot?’

“Understood, sir,” Steve says, because what else can he say? “I’ll make sure nothing like this happens again. The Wakanda mission is important to Bucky, he won’t want to jeopardize it.”

Coulson clicks his tongue and opens the door to the small space, Theresa waiting just on the other side with her arms impatiently folded over her soft, blue scrubs. “Strike three and he’s not just off the mission,” Coulson tells him. “He’s out of the Winter Soldier program.”

* * *

After the disaster with Director of SHIELD, Bucky figured he was utterly fucked and after Steve saved him — yet again — he figured that was also the end of his doctor’s appointment. How could Dr. Simmons feel safe in the same room after he went all feral like that? Bucky wants to crawl on his belly from shame when he steps over the mess in the hallway, and can’t even believe that the deep, ragged gashes in the wall are from his very own claws. Still, Dr. Simmons is patient and attentive as always once he gets situated in a different examination room.

Dr. Simmons tells him, in not so many words, that he isn’t a spry young cat anymore, and his digestive tract has had enough of all that human food. The young felines in the STRIKE trainee unit wolf it down without much thought, but she sees these sorts of problems in many ‘mature’ cats as their systems start rejecting diets that are rich with all the wrong things.

‘Mature’, she says, which Bucky translates to be ‘decrepitly old’, and is suddenly reminded of Brock, telling him how he had been involuntarily retired out of the military because of his age. That old tom has to be at least ten years older than Bucky, and Bucky himself only just hit thirty according to the CFC registry. Brock must be having a hell of a time choking down whatever the Secret Service feeds their cats, if all the garlic and onions and corn and whatever else goes right through Bucky like water.

Maybe he really should be using his base charge card to buy his own meals. Just as he thinks this over, Dr. Simmons takes a deep breath, the kind humans always make before they are going to broach a difficult subject, and asks him what happened earlier with Director Coulson.

“He tried to take off my muzzle,” Bucky explains, like an idiot, because he really doesn’t have much more of an answer than that. At the time it seemed so threatening, but now it just sounds stupid.

“You let me take it off just now,” Dr. Simmons reasonably points out, and Bucky’s eyes flick down to it, sitting there harmlessly next to the sink in the small countertop. “What was it about the Director trying to remove it that made you panic?”

Bucky snorts, because the hell he did, but she hardly lets him get away with it and presses him further. “Did he say something to you? Did he touch you? In a different way, that maybe you didn’t like?”

“He- he just asked me questions.”

Dr. Simmons nods, and Bucky feels like a fool for answering. “What kind of questions? Personal questions?”

“Questions about Steve,” Bucky blurts out, then flicks his ears upright. “I mean, about Captain Rogers.”

Dr. Simmons watches him thoughtfully, and he worries she’s going to point out his flub of decorum before she switches tracks. “Did you know that he wanted me to draw your blood? To deliver to him after our appointment was over? Even if you didn’t want to.”

“I… May have heard some of it.” Bucky admits, glad that the topic has momentarily steered clear. “I guess it made me feel… um. I was a little worried. I thought maybe someone was attacking you.”

Dr. Simmons’s eyes pop wide in surprise, like she truly hadn’t expected that response, because why should she? Bucky is Steve’s bodyguard, not hers. He is trained as a hunter to protect soldiers, not civilian doctors. Still, if he had the chance to help her he would have, and he doesn’t really see what the big deal is. She’s a good doctor.

“And that made you worried, when he started asking questions about Captain Rogers?” Maybe she’s _too_ good of a doctor, Bucky thinks, because damned if she didn’t hit the nail right on the head. “Or, _Steve_.”

Bucky shifts his weight. “I can’t, um. I couldn’t— It wouldn’t be possible for me to...” Bucky chuffs and sits down so hard the thin paper on the examinational table tears.

“What’s that?” Dr. Simmons asks.

“It wouldn’t be possible for me to make him sick, would it?” Bucky says, piecing together whatever Coulson had been suggesting with all that ‘body fluid’ talk. “Coulson. He wanted to make sure I hadn’t exchanged body fluids with Captain Rogers. Maybe he’s looking for something in my blood.”

Dr. Simmons taps her chin with her long fingers, puzzling it over, distracted enough by the biology of the question to ignore the guilt in his tone that Bucky thinks must be obvious. “Feline pathogens rarely infect humans, if ever. I believe there’s been very few cases of things like mange causing skin lesions in humans, but only if their hygiene is rather appalling. There are some zootonic diseases, ringworm and rabies, that can transfer between any mammal.”

“Cat scratch fever?” Bucky interjects, and Dr. Simmons’ face falls.

“Do you know the origin of the phrase?” She asks and there’s no way for Bucky to hide when his ears turn out in alarm. Now he really must look as guilty as he feels because Dr. Simmons tilts her head to the side, watching him squirm.

He can’t even bring himself to say it out loud, it’s so taboo. Unthinkably, he has the sudden urge to tell her everything, even as his gut churns with fear of discovery, like it’s only now just catching up with him what he and Steve have been doing all these months. Why can’t he just say it? Cat scratch fever comes from people and cats, _fucking_. People like Captain Rogers fucking cats like Bucky, and damn if Steve’s mouth isn’t where Bucky’s cock wants to spend the rest of its life.

“Cat scratch fever was originally what they called a certain bacterial infection that humans caught from mundane cats,” she goes on, letting him off the hook. “Honestly, I’m not sure when it started getting tossed about as a term for feliphilia. We don’t have that phrase in England.”

“You don’t have _us_ in England,” Bucky points out, a bit more defensively than was probably necessary judging by her reaction.

“A few,” she insists. “Not many. Not enough for feliphilia to be much of an issue. Is that… is that what you’re talking about? Making Captain Rogers sick through fluid transmission… like intercourse?”

Bucky shuts his damn mouth, and kicks his feet back and forth to give his anxiety someplace to go, even though his tail is already knocking around behind him like he got caught with extra rations under his mattress. “No,” he lies. “Spend enough time with a human and the scent starts carrying. Other cats notice. It’s something you just have to consider, or else other cats will consider it for you.”

“I see,” Dr. Simmons says. “Well, first of all, cat scratch fever in those terms is total bollocks. _False_ ,” she helpfully adds, translating when Bucky gets hung up on her unfamiliar slang. “It’s not a real medical condition. Feliphilia is a social construct, culturally taboo because it’s unacceptable in our society. There’s no medical reasoning behind it, other than I suppose, the fact that humanoid felines don’t have compatible anatomy.”

“Hmm,” Bucky mumbles with a shrug, and she looks like she is going to add more onto that before she simply releases a breath through her nose, then gives him a smile that looks like she doesn’t exactly approve of whatever he chooses not to say.

“You do recall, anything you tell me is strictly confidential,” she reminds him, holding that look until he responds.

“Did you say you needed to draw my blood?” Bucky says, switching tracks, and she finally relents.

It’s quick, the tourniquet, making a fist, and watching the first vial go dark with his own blood as it fills, then watching the empty space between his feet as the second and third fill after that. She puts a pale green band-aid over the red drop that the pin prick leaves behind, and tells him he can put his clothes back on with a gentle pat on his elbow.

Bucky does, slowly, doing up the front of his shirt carefully so that his metal fingers don’t slip on the smooth plastic buttons. It’s from a company named Armani, and he remembers how surprised he was when the cheerful woman at Barney’s told him the collar was made low especially for cats, to make space for their license. He gets to the top button and feels the weight of that for some reason, like suddenly it’s not so impressive anymore and all he wants is a normal, human shirt again.

“Would you like help with this?” Dr. Simmons tactfully asks, taking up the muzzle in both hands. “I could get Captain Rogers back in here, if you prefer.”

“No thanks,” Bucky says, digging up a smile from somewhere beneath all that dark weight. “I’d appreciate it if you did it, Dr. Simmons.”

The muzzle goes back on, the familiar closeness of his own breath returns, along with the reminder that despite how much he hates it, this is meant for him. If humanoid felines didn’t lose control these muzzles wouldn’t exist, so even he can’t deny that he’s earned this. Bucky stretches his neck, trying to get the flexible part of it that connects under his chin to rest more comfortably on top of his adam’s apple.

“Thank you,” he tells her, and Dr. Simmons nods before she shows him back out.

Bucky spots Steve immediately, waiting patiently with his arms crossed, in the wide open walkway just on the other side of the waiting room. His tail falls as soon as he catches sight of Major Wilson, the man’s glare is cold and patient as a glacier from his position behind Steve’s shoulder. Why is _he_ so pissed off? Bucky thinks. It’s not like he was the one attacked, this time.

Director Coulson isn’t anywhere to be seen, and the nurse at the front reception ignores Bucky as he walks past the rows of chairs. The crying baby is asleep in its father’s arms, a few people spare him a curious look when they glance up from their phones, but most just go on waiting for their own appointments and ignore his escape. There’s no CFC enforcer, no police. Even the cart of medical supplies that Director Coulson had knocked over had been righted and put away. It’s like it never happened.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, and damn if his reassuring smile has the exact opposite effect, instantly putting Bucky back on edge. “Everything okay?”

No. “Gettin’ old,” Bucky answers, truthfully enough, and shrugs one shoulder, because what can anyone really do about that.

Major Wilson makes a face like that statement offends him, and Steve actually blurts out a laugh before he screws up his mouth like he wishes he could shove it back down his own throat.

 _Now_ who deserves a muzzle…

“But you can’t be that much older than me.”

“Thirty, sir. Since March,” Bucky says, and looks down at his feet, finding the tip of his own tail poking out between his toes. It’s embarrassing, but he can’t help it. His tail doesn’t want to come back out with the way both humans are looking at him. “According to the CFC records, I guess.”

There’s an awkward silence, before Steve clears his throat. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

Bucky’s tail curls obnoxiously around his ankle. He glances back at Major Wilson, now patiently waiting with a more neutral expression, and realizes that of course he hasn’t gotten away with anything after all.

“You’re not in trouble,” Steve tells him, keeping his voice within the circle they complete after Major Wilson steps out from behind Steve’s shoulder. “We just need to go discuss some things.”

“The hell he isn’t,” Major Wilson chimes in, oh-so-helpfully.

“Sam,” Steve begs, still trying to keep his voice low. “Let’s not.”

“Yeah, sure,” Wilson says, his tone not actually agreeing at all. “We’ll all just act like everything’s cool, now.”

The ride back to Steve’s apartment was more of the same. Bucky felt alternatively roasted and chilled by Major Wilson’s frustrated backward glances, and Steve is not much better, overcompensating by being uncharacteristically neutral or using up so much effort to seem upbeat that it made the whole situation feel ten times worse. Bucky almost wishes they could throw him back in the CFC and be done with it.

Not really, he amends, shivering when he remembers the Red Room. _Almost._

Why is Major Wilson coming with them anyway? Doesn’t Steve want to talk to Bucky alone? Doesn’t this have to do with Hydra and SHIELD and President Pierce and Zola and Wakanda and all this mess that Bucky sauntered right in the middle of?

Bucky feels a little better when they take the stairs. He isn’t so distracted by Major Wilson being there that he’d let his guard down, and allow Steve to maneuver through such close quarters without staying at least one landing ahead of him. Besides, after all his fresh training, Bucky feels stronger. Too strong, maybe, considering how easily he had run down Director Coulson.

The reminder puts Bucky in a sour mood. Why had that man tried to take off his muzzle himself? What business of it was his? Bucky might not be able to remove it himself, but if he wanted the man to get so familiar with him he’d fucking ask. It’s just like everyone touching his ears and his tail and his scruff without his “consent,” as Steve would say. It’s normal, it happens all the time, but damn it if Bucky isn’t starting to feel a bit territorial over his own fucking spots.

Just as he reaches Steve’s front door, eager to see the apartment again, he feels the all too familiar shadow of Sakhalin hit him right in the face. It’s even more confusing now that he can’t scent it, even more present seeping out from under the door and leaking through the keyhole. It’s like a haze that he can’t see, a sound he can’t hear, snakes and insects and the slow slither of decay steadily eating the world around him. How could it be this bad already?

“Safe and sound up here, buddy?” Steve asks, pushing that chipper tone so much that Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Don’t know. Can’t smell.”

Of course Steve isn’t really worried. He’s reckless enough to go about unlocking his front door and heads inside armed with nothing but a smile. Bucky’s hip collides with Major Wilson as he slots himself in the door before the other human could enter, because maybe he is feeling a little bit territorial still, and maybe he should follow right after Steve, just in case.

It takes less than a minute for Bucky to poke his face into each corner of the apartment, to make note of the mess Steve’s been living in the last few weeks, the collection of sparkling water bottles next to the television, the pile of laundry in the hamper and, oh _Steve_ , the takeout containers in the _bedroom_. Bucky’s room looks virtually untouched, except the bed, which he can somehow tell just by looking at it that Steve slept in, for who knows what reason.

After the quick reconnaissance, Bucky goes straight for his very own chair, crawling aboard like it’s a little floating island in all this pond scum that filled Steve’s apartment, settled into the floorboards and skimming off the surface of the sofa as he passes by. Steve’s been here too, but it’s not as bad as the rest of the place, as far as Bucky can tell.

“You finished?” Major Wilson asks him, staring down from where he’s standing stock still, arms slammed in a hard fold across his stiff blue uniform.

Major Wilson is an asshole.

“Yes,” Bucky tells him, and holds the man’s gaze as he arches his spine and rubs his ears along the high back of his chair. The major can stand around all stiff and uncomfortable as much as he likes. Bucky hasn’t forgotten that this chair had been laced with Major Wilson’s scent, the first time he sat in it.

“Alright,” Steve says, coming into the living room with a sparkling water and a single beer. “Sam. Have a seat. We need to talk.”

Bucky freezes, mid rub, and brings his chin back down as his tail curls up in interest.

“I know this isn’t exactly the best place for it, but it’s the one place we know they aren’t listening,” Steve starts and Bucky sits up a little straighter, because holy shit, Steve is really going to go for it.

“They?” Wilson asks, dropping his service cap on the coffee table and undoing his jacket buttons as he takes a seat.

The green bottle in Steve’s hands starts to perspire, but he doesn’t open it. Instead, he just rubs his thumb along the delicate glass throat and takes in a breath. Then he tells Sam Wilson _everything_.

Wilson goes for the beer when Steve tells him it had been his own father who made Bucky disappear into the CFC system after Sakhalin, and Wilson holds the empty bottle all the way through until Steve finally gets to their current situation. That’s when Steve tells Bucky about Director Coulson’s warning, three strikes and he’s out, released from the program and likely back into the CFC’s care. Bucky isn’t actually too worried about that, since he just has to make it another few days until the Nobel Prize gala and then he’ll be connected with the Wakanda Movement, for better or worse. What really worries Bucky are Steve’s subtle revisions to the story, and the way his voice takes an unfamiliar soft tone when he talks about Alexander Pierce.

Steve describes the President of the United States, fatherly and a little overwhelming, gathering him up for a brief hug, and still makes the excuse that it’s just a scent of Zola that clings to him, transferring from Pierce’s earnest contact. Bucky doesn’t contradict him, because now isn’t the time for that fight. He keeps waiting for Steve to admit that they’re lovers, since he’s decided to tell Major Wilson everything else, or to show him the wound on his arm that Bucky has certainly noticed him favoring. Thankfully, Steve manages to gloss over those details, despite the way Major Wilson’s gaze slides Bucky’s direction when the timeline leaves an opening.

After a small forest of bottles have sprung up across the surface of the coffee table and Major Wilson’s uniform is down to its last buttons, Steve falls silent.

“Okay,” Wilson says slowly. He sighs, long and thoughtfully, before he puts his third beer bottle — this one only half empty — among the others, and lean heavily onto the tops of his knees. “So SHIELD obviously has been planning this for a while,” he reasons. “If they planned to turn Bucky into a weapon from the beginning.”

“Director Coulson took my blood,” Bucky says, the first thing he’s said since Steve got started, and Wilson looks up at him in surprise, like maybe he forgot he was there.

Steve hasn’t though, and instead just looks tired. “Is that why you attacked him?”

Bucky raises up from where he’s tucked into a more comfortable ball. “I didn’t… really, attack him.”

“You didn’t _hurt_ him,” Steve points out. “There’s a difference.”

Bucky sinks back down into his own tail. Thanks Steve.

“I think he only meant that Director Coulson might have suspicions about what cats have to do with this hydra… thing,” Major Wilson reasons, still staring hard at his beer bottle, like it holds the key to the whole, twisted puzzle. “There’s obviously some biological component to all this. Something cats have that we don’t, that lets them sense this thing. They’re immune to it, too so whatever it is, cats are its natural enemy.”

Steve nods, following along, until Wilson gets to the immunity bit. “How do you figure that?”

Wilson shrugs. “Cats are predators, but they don’t just attack random humans. They either attack with a purpose, like Black Panther, or they do what they’re told, like the SCFs.”

“It doesn’t effect anyone else, sir.” Bucky was grateful, if a little confused, that Wilson had come to his defense, but it’s not exactly accurate. “There’s a whole regiment of cats that work for the Secret Service. They must be around it all day. Every day. But Brock doesn’t seem to be bothered.”

Wilson shakes his head. “All uncut males, licensed to be Secret Service, undergo a special regiment of immunizations and tests… What if there’s something that they take that neutralizes your natural ability to smell this thing? What if that’s what they were trying to do to you before Steve found you?”

Bucky’s tail shivers before he can stop it, as the image of Dr. Lukin immediately floats to the top of his mind. Dr. Lukin and his horrible tests, the burning injections and constant failures. What if Lukin had been trying to filter the ability to detect these things out of Bucky’s blood? What if he failed, because of Bucky’s experience on Sakhalin? And that’s how…

“That’s how I wound up in the Red Room,” Bucky breathes out. “They told me it was a choice but they hurt me so bad… it wasn’t… Not really...” Bucky drops his head back behind the full tip of his tail, because he can’t breathe and the muzzle isn’t making it any easier, but he doesn’t want one of the humans to try and take it off of him, like Coulson had before he lost control.

The Red Room isn’t something he thinks of, not intentionally. It just appears sometimes, when his thoughts carelessly drift back there, like they had in the car when his own sarcasm laid a trap for him. Now, it slams back into him with a vengeance, as he desperately tries to search his drug addled memories for answers to Major Wilson’s sensible questions. Steve never would have asked him about it. Maybe this is why Steve wanted Wilson here in the first place, but then suddenly it occurs to him that Steve is angry.

“- absolutely no right!” Steve shouts, and he’s standing, and Wilson is standing, and they look two inches away from taking a swing at one another. What’s going on?

“Steve, buddy, I know you can get a little punchy when it comes to your cat, but think about it. Soon as they identified this guy, he winds up transferred from New York, all the way here, to the Triskelion? Why would they do that if they hadn’t realized it was the cat that found this Zola guy? If Bucky can remember more from the Red Room, if Pierce was even _there_ — ”

“That’s enough,” Steve insists, slicing his hand through the air to sever the conversation. “The things they did to him in there. And Pierce wouldn’t have been involved. The president would never— ”

“He was,” Bucky blurts out, before he even knows he’s saying it, before he even realizes he had remembered. Through the haze and the panic and the hopelessness, through the acrid smell of burning fur and terrified yowls of pained cats. Pierce was there. Pierce had visited him, in the labs, before the Red Room. Bucky was scared, but he was _always_ scared back then, and just never realized…

Both Steve and Major Wilson are staring at him, and he realizes he hasn’t said anything else since he first interrupted them.

“President Pierce was there. In the Triskelion. He knew what Lukin was doing. He was the one that told him to- That said I couldn’t… He was there.”

Steve sits back down, and says nothing for a good few minutes while that sinks in. Bucky watches an empty space in the middle of the room, remembering it now in shocking clarity. Finally, Steve heaves out a breath, swipes Wilson’s unfinished beer off the coffee table, and drains the bottle in three, massive gulps.

“Okay,” Steve says, slumping back into the sofa. “Okay, so Pierce was there. SHIELD knew about Bucky, from the start. That’s how they knew where he’d be in the Triskellion, that’s how they approved Pierce’s Winter Soldier program, that’s how they made adjustments to the arm design, knowing Bucky would use these weapons… That’s why Director Coulson is allowing Bucky to stay on. Even after he attacked him. Even after he attacked my dad.”

Steve nods along as the picture continues to fill in with color, layers of paint on a canvas that stretches much farther back than they realized. It was easy for Bucky to remain mostly quiet as Steve broke down the last five years of their lives to Major Wilson, and he can see why the two of them share such a strong bond. It’s like they think the same way, analytical, measured. Only where Steve ignites himself with a raging sense of justice, Wilson has a colder approach. Not cold emotionally, but cold like the way the sharpest edge of a knife is cold — like the way a sniper shot cracking through a snowy tundra is cold. It makes it easy for Steve’s natural process to flow when the two get to talking, working out a strategy in real time, and easily understanding each other with so few words.

Plus, Steve seems to have completely relaxed around Major Wilson, uniform slipped open, one knee slung up on the cushion beside him and pivoting towards the other human as he paces towards the kitchen, following Wilson with his exposed front. The two must have been so much closer, before Bucky came along.

“So what do they want with the Black Panther?” Major Wilson says, and taps his fingers thoughtfully on the breakfast bar. “Maybe he knows even more about Hydra than SHIELD.”

“Maybe he knows _everything_ ,” Steve quickly reasons. “But then why would the President work so hard to stop him? Maybe he’s trying to ensure Bucky is placed as a sleeper cell inside the movement because he wants to learn more from a cat’s point of view.”

Major Wilson is stumped by that, searching his own thoughts to better understand the connection while Bucky’s heart continues its slow descent into his gut. Had he just imagined he managed to convince Steve that the President was just as dangerous, just as corrupted as Arnim Zola? It’s not like Steve’s come out and said he doesn’t believe him anymore, but in not so many words Steve managed to downplay Pierce’s role in all of this, and even slipped a few times, giving the man credit for the Winter Soldier program that Steve himself had been responsible for.

Then Steve mumbles bitterly, like he doesn’t really want to know the answer, “And what does my dad have to do with all of this?” and Major Wilson shrugs.

“Have you asked him?”

Steve actually laughs. “No. My dad isn’t exactly an easy guy to talk to. He hates what happened to me on Sakhalin and hates Bucky even more.”

Bucky can practically see the red flag raise in Major Wilson, and unfolds from his position on the chair, trying to get Steve’s attention, to signal him to abort. Steve isn’t looking his way though, still following Wilson when the other human asks, “Why does he hate Bucky? Figured dad would appreciate that your SCF dragged you out of there in one piece.”

“He just hates that Bucky’s not just my SCF,” Steve says, as if it was obvious, a matter of course, and Bucky watches Steve Rogers in his natural element, casually sincere, blundering right along. “Probably jealous that I love him more than I— ”

Bucky plants his face in his hands.

“I mean,” Steve awkwardly redirects. “I think my dad just assumes I am clinging onto my past in the infantry, with as much as I care about my relationship with my SCF.” It was a good cover up, and actually made a lot of sense, but Wilson isn’t buying it.

“Steve…” Wilson says, and takes a flabbergasted breath. “You’re... Who do you think you’re fooling with that line?”

Bucky hears Steve swallow, and peeks through the gap in his fingers, catching Steve’s eye when he glances back to him. Caught, Steve’s expression softens, and he leans back with a long draw of breath and a smile. “Out of all the ways I imagined telling you…”

“I can’t believe you trusted me with this massive government conspiracy theory,” Wilson quietly observes. “Before you trusted me with what’s going on in your love life.”

“It’s hardly a love life,” Steve admits, and Bucky’s not sure what he means by that. “And I didn’t want you to feel… I didn’t want this to be a problem.”

“You really know how to show a guy you respect him, Rogers,” Wilson says, and turns to leave so quickly that the door’s jarring slam doesn’t even get Steve out of his seat for several seconds after he winces from the noise.

“You messed that up,” Bucky tells him, and Steve clicks his tongue.

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve says, finally getting to his feet. He paces to the door, like he’s considering giving belated chase, before he paces back into the living room. “Ah, damn it. He forgot his cap,” he says, pointing to the Air Force service cap, with its shining silver rosettes decorating the bill.

“Stay here,” Bucky says, sweeping it off the coffee table before Steve could reach it, and heads right for the door.

“Bucky, no!” Steve says, marching right after him.

“Off my tail,” Bucky snaps, rounding on him. “For once please just… just do what I ask?”

Steve’s face is spoiling for a fight, an argument on the tip of his tongue as he draws in a breath. His eyes catch on Bucky’s throat, on the dark purple mark left there from only earlier that afternoon. “Yeah. Alright,” he says, planting his feet, because he’s only barely allowing it, but before Bucky makes it through the door Steve calls his name. “Just… I care about Sam a lot, Buck. He’s important to me.”

Bucky isn’t sure why Steve had to tell him that, because Bucky figures it’s pretty obvious. The way he opens up around Major Wilson, all sunny and comfortable, makes it clear that the guy is special to him. Maybe Bucky has been feeling a little territorial about that, too. “I know,” he tells Steve, before he heads out.

The stairs are much faster than the elevator, especially since he doesn’t have to wait for Steve. Bucky simply leaps over the full flight, sailing easily from floor to floor, touching down only briefly on each square landing. When he gets to the tight whorl at the ground level, landing cut short in front of the exit door, he hits the wall just above the illuminated sign, and has to spend the rest of his inertia in a circular ricochet, pinging off each wall in a spiral before he lands silently on the cement. Bucky rushes to the curb, immediately fighting the bite of cold, and spots Major Wilson quickly, puffing warm air into his bare hands.

“Major,” Bucky calls to him, because he knows how quiet he can be, knows that no one likes feeling snuck up on.

Wilson sees him and barely reacts at all, still cool despite how he left Steve’s apartment. It’s a good tactic, making Bucky feel terribly rushed and huffy without uttering a word.

“I um,” Bucky starts, trying to figure out how to say what he needs to say, and actually get through to him. “You forgot your hat.”

Major Wilson’s facade cracks, and he smiles, like he’s just been defeated at something a whole hell of a lot more fun than this. He has a small gap in his front teeth, a little flaw that makes his dark, chiseled features look all the more charming. He’s attractive for a human, and again, Bucky thinks of how he’s effected Steve’s relationships after shoving his way between them.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the peace offering. “Guess Steve didn’t want to come down himself, huh?”

It takes a surprising amount of courage for Bucky to finally spit it out. “Steve is lying to you.”

The smile vanishes, and Major Wilson’s chin lifts. “Come again?”

“Steve. Almost everything he said is true, but he covered for Pierce.” Bucky looks around, just in case there could be someone within earshot. At this time in the evening, in this weather, the front of the block is all but deserted. Even few cars slosh by on the wet, snowy street in front of them. “Pierce isn’t just carrying Zola’s scent. It’s hard to explain it, but that’s just not how scent works. It’s not like Pierce just shook Zola’s hand and now he smells the same.”

“Oh,” Wilson says carefully, but Bucky is losing him. “Kay. You have my attention, until this Uber driver gets here,” he adds, holding up his phone to show the app loading on the screen.

Bucky’s tail swishes, irritated with himself as he is, and he tries to find the right words. He needs to bring this back around to why Wilson should actually give a damn. “I think Pierce got to Steve. Like he has with Brock. Steve believed me, when I told him about it weeks ago, but then he had a meeting with him, that ‘hug’ that he told us about just now. After that Steve was different. He smells different, too, carrying around that wrongness. He didn’t tell you, because he’s trying to protect me, but I attacked him because of it. That’s why I’ve been wearing this, even inside.” Bucky tilts his chin up, needing to do little else to point out the constricting muzzle.

Wilson is silent for a few more beats, parsing Bucky’s rushed confession, and Bucky hopes he doesn’t linger on the part where he said he attacked Steve. “What are you trying to tell me?” Wilson says. “You’re saying Steve isn’t Steve anymore?”

“I’m saying-” Bucky stops. Is that what he’s saying? “I’m saying that Steve might not even know that something else is dominating him. The way he gives Pierce credit for everything, the Winter Soldier program, Wakanda. It’s just not true. Pierce is not on our side. Pierce is the enemy.”

Major Wilson goes still, relaxed and calm as always, impossible to read. The thought suddenly strikes Bucky that without his ability to smell, he wouldn’t be able to tell if Major Wilson himself is also one of them by now. The sense of wrongness oozing through Steve’s apartment is entirely gone now that he’s outside in the crisp, winter air, but it’s left a numb tingling behind and Bucky can’t be one hundred percent sure.

“I noticed that too,” Wilson finally admits. “We worked on a lot of the Winter Soldier program together. Some things that he fought for, like the deal with Stark Industries for your arm, he just said had been Pierce’s idea. I don’t think Pierce even saw the proposal until he signed off on the budget.”

Bucky isn’t sure how relieved to be, as he watches Wilson work out the math. “So. You believe me?”

Major Wilson looks Bucky up and down, appraising him like humans always do when he surprises them. He instinctively draws his shoulders back, standing a little taller, and gets his tail out from between his knees. A car pulls up, headlights flickering in the choppy snowfall, and Wilson takes a glance down at his phone. “Ride’s here,” he says. “Thanks for the hat. I’ll keep in mind what you said and, uh,” Wilson opens the car door, turns briefly back at him. “Give me a call if you need anything. Either of you.”

Maybe Major Wilson isn’t so bad after all. “I think Steve said he already owes you five.”

Wilson rewards him with a more genuine laugh. “I’ll just add it to his tab.” The major climbs into the back of the Uber, but before he shuts the door he takes a moment, and turns back to Bucky. “Just so you know, I’d do anything to help him out.”

Good to know. Bucky suspects Steve would do just about anything for Major Wilson in return.

“But,” Wilson continues. “Since you just told me you attacked him, I’m going to have to be honest and tell you, in my mind, you’ve already hit strike three.”

Also good to know. Bucky nods curtly, appreciating the honesty. “Understood, sir.”

* * *

 

Bucky's getting some much needed tail snuggles, by [DeanDraws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/post/159654704350/a-very-special-not-without-you-kickstarter-reward)! 

Brock attempting to dominate Bucky in the Secret Service interview room, back in Chapter 18. That sneaky old tom! A gift from the incredible [hiemallily](https://hiemallily.tumblr.com/post/161677308172/an-illustration-i-did-for-one-of-my-all-time)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Sorry for the long wait on this chapter. I participated in the Stucky Scary Bang (I wrote an Aliens AU called You Are My Lucky Star! Check it out!) and did something special on my Tumblr during the month of October (and traveled for work!) so I just got pulled away from this for far too long. I also started doing Nanowrimo, but I've decided I don't want any more distractions as I continue with Something Wild Calls You Home. Hopefully, I can get back to a more regular posting schedule soon! Thanks so much for your patience everyone!


	27. Army of Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to @Shaish and @Heartofthemirror for all the beta help for this chapter! It was such a tricky one to get right and I couldn't have done it without you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!! NSFW ART! Very very very NSFW art!!! 
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

Steve isn’t the sort of person who would pace, fidgety and useless, while waiting for his lover to get back from meeting his pissed off best friend.

After tossing all the bottles in the recycling can, wiping down the counters, and darting through his other rooms to collect the frankly shameful amount of trash (and laundry — he wears a _uniform_ every day! How could there be _so much laundry!_ ) it occurs to Steve that Bucky might not actually come back.

Steve wants to go after him, but stops himself, since that would be treading on Bucky’s very earnest request for Steve to let him speak to Sam on his own. Then Steve heads to his living room to check Here Kitty, but doubles back when he figures that wouldn’t be much better. He changes his mind when the very real fear that Bucky will just take off lodges in his mind and doesn’t leave. It’s almost like he’s stuck halfway between his kitchen and his living room and can’t catch a break from his mounting anxiety.

So… _pacing_ , basically.

“Fuck,” Steve breathes out, and collapses on the sofa with a huff. It’s bad enough things are so goddamn difficult between Bucky and him, but now he’s managed to upset Sam, and expose his relationship in the process. Two people now know that he’s a- that he’s in love with Bucky: someone he should be able to confide in anyway, and then his dad, who is the last person on Earth who should have such precious information. Thinking of General Rogers makes Steve’s nervous knee bounce up and down, until he thinks of the way Alexander Pierce called him ‘son,’ before embracing him.

It’s awful that such a genuine gesture of respect from someone with so much dignity could have caused so much trouble. Steve’s own father never would have said he was proud of him, not like Pierce did, and he can’t even remember the last time The General embraced him with any warmth. Steve knows Bucky would hate it, but he wishes the President knew about his relationship instead.

Maybe, just maybe, Pierce could help Steve get Bucky’s license under his name, if he confided to the president how much Bucky means to him.

Steve’s nerve crumbles and he retrieves his phone from the depths of the sofa cushions, determined to just take a quick look to see if Bucky’s halfway to Fort McNair by now. He just manages to open Here Kitty when he hears the front door open, and flings his phone away like a hot coal.

“Buck?” Steve bounds towards the front door, and Bucky freezes just inside, metal hand tightening on the handle as his tail makes a cautious sweep behind him. Steve stops himself from moving closer, trying to avoid crowding him as he closes the door. “Did- Um, did it go okay?”

“Just returned his hat,” Bucky flatly explains, and Steve skirts wide from Bucky’s path, giving him space to make his way into the livingroom.

“I’m glad you came back,” Steve says, trying to keep his own tone light enough for them both. “We haven’t had much of a chance to-”

“I needed my coat,” Bucky interrupts, plucking it off the back of his own chair. He frowns at the black wool, brushes some of his own fur off of it, then gathers up Steve’s bright red scarf.

“Oh.” How the hell did Steve miss that? Considering how many times he’d be in and out of his living room in the few short minutes Bucky’s been gone, he should have noticed it waiting to be collected. It’s stupid to think they could have spent any meaningful time together, which Steve knows perfectly well, but he gathers up his courage and blurts out anyway, “You could stay.”

“I can’t,” Bucky predictably declines, but doesn’t put his coat on or drape the scarf around his shoulders. He just stands there instead, staring down at the clothes, like he’s not quite sure what to do with them.

Steve probably just made things complicated for him with that thinly veiled request. Did that come off as begging? Or worse, _ordering_? “Alright. I’ll take you back if you-”

“I’m just hungry is all,” Bucky says, still not moving, still not looking up from where his arms are tucked under the warm winter clothes. “Haven’t had anything since lunch.”

Of course. Because that would require him to take off his muzzle, which he can’t do around Steve. Poor guy probably hasn’t even had any water, and here they were talking all afternoon. Steve doesn’t even bother to say anything else, instead just scoops up his phone and grabs his own coat, pats his pockets to make sure his keys are still there and not left out on the kitchen counter somewhere. He’s so determined to see this through, that he doesn’t realize Bucky hasn’t moved until he makes it to the front door.

“We should get going…” he urges, and damn Bucky for forcing him to give up out loud.

Bucky’s fists curl inside the jacket, his tail flicks as he visibly struggles. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “We should. Curfew is coming up.”

Steve’s pretty sure Bucky’s intentionally letting the muzzle garble his words this time, because Steve can barely make out the last bit without filling in the blanks by reading Bucky’s body language. He’s ready to go, but hates it, and clearly has more to say.

“Hey,” Steve says, softer this time. Bucky glances up quickly at the change of tone, like he was just caught trying to hide his feelings, like wishing to stay breaks some unspoken law. “I’m with you, remember?” Steve tries to remind him, but isn’t sure how successful he is. “Even when I’m not.”

Bucky drops his chin and lets out a rapid fire series of chuffs, and it comes out sounding like a sneeze in the muzzle so Steve laughs.

“Alright,” Bucky finally says, pulling on his coat. “But you can drop me off at the BX. Mess probably closed twenty minutes ago.”

“Of course,” Steve says, glad that means Bucky will be using his base charge card to get a proper meal.

Even though it isn’t really what either of them want, it can pass as a compromise, and they can have another shot at figuring out how to orbit each other tomorrow.

* * *

The deli section at the BX is already closed, so Bucky buys two pre-packaged roast-beef sandwiches, a small container of chicken salad, half a dozen cheerful looking deviled eggs, and a single cup of vanilla pudding. He has to ask the volunteer bagger to pull off his muzzle, but she’s happy to do it, and thanks him for another generous tip after she gives his ears a pat of approval.

Bucky trudges through the snow all the way back to the Winter Soldier dorms, where he rights his single chair and eats alone at the tiny kitchen island. It’s cold inside, even for him, but he doesn’t bother turning on the heat since he knows he won’t be staying long. Still, he takes his time to finish his meal, making sure to throw out the bread and onions from the sandwiches, and works his way around the celery in the chicken salad. The eggs are particularly tasty, so he saves two for later. Once he finally gets to the pudding cup he actually sets it aside, takes a shower, and comes back to finish it off before he brushes his teeth and finally heads back out.

It was nice to eat alone for a change, since it gave him time to think, even though most of what he thinks about isn’t great. Major Wilson doesn’t trust him, isn’t happy about how things are going, and why should he be? He is Steve’s ex-lover, and that relationship wound up someplace that clearly wasn’t his idea. Even though Steve didn’t mention it on the way back to the base, Bucky can tell it really bothers him. Not just that Wilson isn’t happy, but that he had to keep the secret from him in the first place.

It’s never really occurred to Bucky before, but Steve doesn’t seem to have a tight social circle, and he wonders if maybe that’s another misconception he’s learned from television, where human lives are almost always driven by deep, meaningful friendships like cats could never have. Instead of many, Steve seems to really have just the one, and now that one is threatened because of Bucky.

“Shit,” Bucky sighs, kicking his way through snow that piled up on the short steps leading into the feline barracks. The entryway is already warm, and when he sneaks into the main room, bunks lining each wall, he finds the entire cadet unit snoozing softly in their blankets. All except three of course, and he doesn’t know how annoyed he really is to find Brooklyn, Pietro and Tripp wound up tightly in a ridiculous pile on his mattress. They even brought their own pillows over, and Brooklyn’s head is wrapped up in his blanket so tightly Bucky wouldn’t have recognized him if it wasn’t for how incredibly small his purring burrito is compared to the others.

“Hey, brats,” Bucky says in a harsh whisper, and gives the leg of his bunk a kick that’s just hard enough to rattle them. Two heads pop up immediately, and Tripp and Pietro adjust only incrementally with suffering groans, grumpy over being forced to make space for Bucky in his own damn bed. “Not good enough,” Bucky tells them, giving the leg another tap with the toe of his boot. “Not in the mood tonight.”

Tripp is first to take a hint, drops to the floor and quads over to his own bed with a quiet sigh of protest. Pietro joins him, in some wordless agreement that apparently the cat pile will continue in Tripp’s bunk, and Brooklyn finally raises his head.

“You’re back,” he whispers, his ears swiveling in confusion, like he really didn’t expect to see Bucky again. His confusion quickly turns into revolution when Bucky sits down. “Why do you smell like that?”

Shit, Bucky was hoping his shower would have cleared that scent he carried over from being in Steve’s apartment.

“Did you eat eggs or something?”

Or. That. Maybe he should have brushed his teeth again after polishing off those last two.

“Mess hall was closed,” Bucky explains, taking a seat. He kicks off his boots and climbs out of his clothes, careful not to rumple them too badly as he folds them on top of his footlocker. Sergeant Lopez can kiss his tail if he gets pissed for the mess. Bucky has better things to do than worry about his life with the STRIKE trainees. He pauses with his sleep pants halfway up his hips, thinking about that, and glances back down at Brooklyn.

The other cat is staring up at him, eyes huge and flashing as they capture the dim light in the room. “We got new uniforms for the President’s Nobel ceremony.”

“What?” Bucky climbs under the blankets, forcing Brooklyn over. “You’re going?”

“Yeah, Lopez told us today. We’re going to the rehearsal tomorrow. Have to wear these dress uniforms. It’s some kind of fancy party I guess.”

“They call it a _gala_ ,” Bucky says, mocking the whole thing with a snort, and Brooklyn snickers as he readjusts around Bucky’s knees. “Fancy cats and fancy humans, fancy food and stuff.”

“Not for us,” Brooklyn grumbles. “Muzzles for the whole unit also showed up.”

“Figures,” Bucky mumbles, tucking into his pillow even though it carries the scent of at least half a dozen other cats by now. Those punks could have at least put it aside instead of rubbing their stupid butts all over his stuff. He really should kick Brooklyn out too, but he’s too sleepy after his big meal to care and drifts off, happy for the warm little lump around his legs.

As predicted, Lopez tries to give Bucky a rash of shit for the clothes folded up on top of his foot locker. Bucky just turns his ears away, bored by the human’s attempt to intimidate him as the other cats climb into their dress slacks and get distracted by the shiny brass buttons on the dark navy jackets.

It’s a target rich environment with all the cats fumbling with the unfamiliar garments, but as soon as Lopez gives up on Bucky he turns his attention to his favorite cat to bully. “Brooklyn!” Lopez bellows, and Bucky is pretty sure the Sergeant has never said Brooklyn’s name at anything below a shout. “What the hell’s the matter with your uniform? You look like a limp dick in a used condom.”

Brooklyn looks up from his buttoned coat, face twisted in confusion. Bucky can hardly blame him and shrugs, not understand either. He gets that the small cat’s just been insulted (the ‘limp dick’ part makes that obvious enough), but what the fuck is a ‘condom’?

“It’s the smallest size on the rack, sir,” Brooklyn answers, smoothing down the rumpled front, even as the jacket’s cuffs hang over the tops of his hands.

Lopez just makes a disgusted sound, and moves on to snap a nasty comment at Mac for his crooked name tag.

The uniforms are almost like Steve’s, dark navy jackets over cream button down shirts, except their bright blue pants don’t have the gold stripe down the side and they have to tuck them into the top of their combat boots, freshly polished to a high shine. They don’t have neckties, ribbons or cords to denote their expertise, rank or classifications. What they get instead are STRIKE insignia pins, attached to the pockets below their plastic name tags, “SCF” in block lettering stamped below it, just to make sure they aren’t confused for actual soldiers.

The necklines of their shirts are also like Bucky’s Armani (although the fabric is about as soft as a brown paper bag), cut low to make space for their military collars and dog tags. Bucky doesn’t get one of these uniforms, instead receives instructions from Lieutenant Lorraine to wear his usual combat leather, probably to make him look fierce next to President Pierce as the human accepts his bullshit award. Plus, his uniform is missing an arm to show off the shiny Stark prosthetic, so there’s that. Luckily, none of them have to wear muzzles for just the rehearsal, and Bucky figures he can get away with keeping his own fastened to his belt for now.

Bucky is surprised when he gets shuffled onto a bus with the other SCFs, and even moreso when Lieutenant Lorraine meets him at the Warner Theater instead of Steve. She speaks to Lopez first, going over some schedule on her tablet while the cats await instructions.

The theater itself is old, with grandeur that reminds Bucky of the pre-World War buildings in Russia. Golden lions roar in relief over marbled arches, rich red carpets spill down wide staircases with carved marble bannisters to match. The lobby is long and narrow, with counters running the length of it, polished so brightly that Bucky can see their reflections in the dark wood as the cats pass through, haloed with golden sparks from the crystal chandeliers dangling high above them.

Brooklyn hasn’t stopped fiddling with the cuffs since they left the barracks, and even now, staring up at the golden ceiling, pale grey eyes tracking panel after panel of lions baring up golden, geometric suns, he tugs and pulls at the neckline of his shirt and shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his stiff jacket.

“It’s gold,” he whispers, as he turns around in a full circle, then blinks twice at the ornate series of mirrors mounted above the grand entrance. “The whole thing is made of gold.”

Bucky glances up ahead, where Lopez is trailing after Lorraine through another series of doors and the cats following after. “Look at the lions,” Pietro whispers, ears flicking as he does a similar turn as they leave the lobby under those marble arches. “They look like royalty.”

“Horses don’t have wings,” Tripp grumbles as they make their way into the auditorium itself, and find a hand-painted ceiling on the balcony’s arched belly. More fantastical creatures prop up urns trailing curled vines and eagles with wings spread wide. “...Do they?”

“No,” Bucky assures him, but who knows. Maybe there had been creatures like this once, that suffered their own great die off, leaving humans the custodians of their images, to wind up painted in grand old opera houses before being forgotten.

All around them, feline workers are still setting up the banquet tables, big round ones with centerpieces that look like they’d been plucked right out of the fabulous lobby. All golden colonial imagery of eagles and vines, curling around claw footed urns and spilling over with fragrant florals. The stage is also being set, with a pair of stocky felines wrestling a giant, blue podium into place on a carpeted blue dais while a human with an earpiece adjusts an electronic teleprompter.

There’s a gold medallion the size of a steering wheel set in the front of the podium, with a man’s severe profile stamped into the gleaming metal. That must be the Nobel prize emblem itself. It’s uglier than Bucky would have imagined.

“The stadium seating has all been removed,” Lorraine explains, after Bucky finally tunes into her conversation with Lopez and watches her motion across the auditorium. “Except for the balcony level, which will be closed off to general attendees. Secret service will be in place of course, but we’d like to have visible feline support as well.”

That explains the uniforms. Bucky wonders whose idea it was to use the STRIKE cadets rather than the Secret Service’s own cats, as Lorraine goes on to explain how the young cats will be positioned throughout the hall. He doesn’t think Steve would have made that decision without telling him, or even have the power to make that happen since the J5 has nothing to do with STRIKE training and operations. Just getting a meeting with Brock at their office was a whole, complicated maneuver.

Thinking about that old cat distracts Bucky enough that he almost doesn’t hear Lorraine’s voice calling his name. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, snapping to attention.

“You’re with me,” she says, all business as she waves him over, and he falls in line while Lopez starts issuing orders to the others. Bucky is lucky that he doesn’t have to listen to the sergeant, since he had absolutely not been paying attention while they went through their duty assignments.

Lorraine leads him through the night’s agenda and a tour of the entire building, detailing every aspect of the event from points of entry to staff breaks. It’s a bit like a tactical mission briefing, only Bucky isn’t allowed to bring his knives. The feline laborers mostly ignore them as they go about their jobs, hauling furniture, laying down electrical wiring, and hoisting complex lighting rigs past the orchestra box seats, mounted along the grand walls like great, golden steps towards the massive balcony.

It all takes far longer than it should, despite Lorraine’s organized and clear instructions. It’s just tedious, and part of him can’t help but wonder what the point of any of this will be if the Black Panther approaches him at the beginning of the evening. Supposedly, this is when it will happen, his initiation into the Wakanda Movement, and whatever that will entail…

“You in there, hon?” Lorraine asks, and gives him a short scritch on the back of his neck, right in his scruff. It makes him shiver, and he looks back at her. They ended their tour on the main stage, Bucky standing on the blue carpeted dais where he’ll be stationed during the award presentation, right next to where Pierce will give his speech.

“Sorry, ma’am. I’m just wondering. When will Captain Rogers get here? My mission...” he carefully starts. She had been in the room with Fury when Steve received the briefing so it’s not like she isn’t read in, but saying it out loud still feels dangerous. “Are there any new instructions?”

Lieutenant Lorraine nods, and her little smile slips. “Ah, of course. Captain Rogers isn’t-”

“He won’t be joining us tonight,” comes a voice from behind her, and Bucky checks over his shoulder before he has to gulp down his surprise. “Captain Rogers is attending rehearsal with POTUS at a secure location.”

“Director Coulson, sir,” Bucky says, spine going straight and chin going up in a parade rest. Coulson approaches from back stage, hands tucked casually into his suit pockets, smiling stiffly. Coulson joins them on the dais, casually hopping up the short steps before he turns to admire the chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling, glittering against the golden backdrop of the frescos there, despite being unlit. He’s intentionally trying to appear unafraid of Bucky, as if the last time they met Bucky hadn’t nearly killed him with his bare hands.

“Beautiful venue,” he says, then gives a soft chuckle that’s probably fake. “I may be dating myself, but I got to see Sinatra play here, when I first moved to DC. Do you know Frank Sinatra?”

Who cares. “No, sir.”

“Ah, that’s a shame,” Coulson says, rocking back on his heels, sounding genuinely disappointed. Bucky’s arms are behind his back, and he makes a fist with his metal hand, struggling to keep his ears from flicking back with guilt. This man is far too important to his future to insult, and he’s sure he’s still in the dog house for attacking him.

Now that he’s blissfully free of the muzzle, Bucky can smell a number of other cats on him, gun oil, whatever products he uses in his thinning hair. Coulson’s personal scent seems faint, buried beneath a number of complicated markers that make it hard to figure out exactly which one belongs to his natural body chemistry. It’s strange and it makes Bucky feel slightly disoriented, so he doesn’t say anything else, hoping Coulson will just give him his mission briefing and leave.

“I should check on Sergeant Lopez,” Lorraine says, graciously excusing herself, and leaves Bucky alone with Coulson.

“I know Captain Rogers would report any issues,” Coulson starts, in a tone that suggests he knows Captain Rogers would do no such thing. “But I wanted to check if you were ready for tomorrow. Our intelligence confirms Panther already has eyes on you, and his agents are in place. We’re going to make sure you are able to mingle in the pre-ceremony reception, exposing you for their approach.”

“It would be easier without a muzzle, sir,” Bucky says dully, and Coulson’s eyes flick down to where it hangs off Bucky’s belt.

“Can’t do anything about that,” Coulson says with a smile and a small shake of his head, and Bucky realizes that probably hadn’t been his choice. Maybe he’s not as powerful as Bucky thinks. “If you have an opportunity to leave with them, do it. We already gave you what you need to make dead drops around the city to communicate with our own agents. We just need names, license numbers, any locations of interest.”

“I understand the mission, sir,” Bucky assures him. It’s a little patronizing, as if they hadn’t already gone over basic subversion tactics in training a hundred times.

“Good. I just wanted you to know that there have been discussions of what to do with your license after the mission wraps.” Coulson pauses and finally meets Bucky’s eyes, waiting for a reaction but Bucky gulps, mind blank. “Retiring it to a private licensor is a possibility,” Coulson adds with a little contemplative frown, as if he’s not so sure about that. “Depending...”

Oh, fuck this.

“Depending on if I strike out?” Bucky suggests stiffly, making it clear that he understands full well what Coulson is doing. Using Steve like a carrot in order to encourage Bucky’s obedience, despite already wielding the stick. Coulson wants to show Bucky what he can do, how much control he has over his life with his backhanded threat. _Behave, or else._

“Ah, you _do_ know baseball,” Coulson says with a smile that crinkles his nose, like he finds that adorable. “You should have Rogers take you to a game sometime. Nothing beats a stadium hot dog.”

Bucky hates Director Coulson, doesn’t trust him, and can feel a prickle of hostility rise along the fur of his scruff. He wishes Lieutenant Lorraine would come back, or even Sergeant Lopez. Anyone at all who could remind Bucky that it’d be rude to finish what he started at the VA.

“Ah,” Coulson suddenly turns to greet someone over the podium. “Major Wilson! Always a pleasure.”

Well. Anyone except that.

Bucky glances off the stage, catches sight of the Major, marching towards them from the center aisle of banquet tables. He doesn’t wave at Bucky, ignoring him completely as he lifts his chin towards the director.

“Director Coulson,” Wilson greets, flashing that charming smile. It’s not quite the same one he uses around Steve, though Coulson doesn’t seem to note the difference. Bucky immediately picks up that Wilson knows the man, and doesn’t care for him either. Funny, since he didn’t say anything about it when Steve told him about Bucky’s mission the night before. Apparently, Major Wilson has a few secrets of his own. “Are you about finished with this guy? We just cleared a dental benefit through the VA and I need him and Captain Rogers to sign off on the paperwork.”

It’s an excuse, but it works, and Coulson happily hands Bucky off to Major Wilson, who quickly leads Bucky out of the theater. They are already several blocks away before Bucky dares to ask. “What am I doing in your car, Major?”

Wilson drives a soft blue hybrid, something modest and unremarkable, and definitely smells like a rental. That’s about all Bucky manages to suss out from the bizarre encounter, and as much as he trusts Steve’s judgement he hasn’t forgotten that Wilson doesn’t exactly care for him. “I checked into our theory, about the cats that get the security classification license for the Secret Service. I think it’s true, that they use it to neutralize a humanoid feline’s natural ability to smell this Zola thing.”

Bucky flexes his metal hand, nodding along. It figures. “Thank you,” he says, not sure exactly what Wilson stood to gain by gathering that intel, or what it might have cost him. “How did you-”

“You were right about Steve,” Wilson says sharply, by way of explanation. “I brought my uniform to the VA. To some of the discharged cats that are starting to come through. Their reaction when I walked through the door… it wasn’t pretty. It was also only the ones who hadn’t received their security certs yet.”

Shit. “Where is he, sir? I thought he’d be at the rehearsals.”

Wilson clicks his tongue against his teeth and Bucky can tell he struggles to answer because he hates the answer. “He was with the President all day.”

Bucky chuffs so hard that his breath fogs the glass of the passenger’s side window. They ride in silence for a long time, the wipers doing their best to keep the windshield from whiting out in the snowfall. It’s already dark, even though it’s still early, and snowing heavily enough that the world outside has gone a little quiet. Bucky is nervous, riding in this car with Major Wilson, and he feels like the world is moving in on him, crowding him into a narrow lane where his choices are quickly vanishing. Still, Steve trusts Wilson more than anyone else, so much so that he had called Wilson when Bucky had panicked at that store, the day Steve brought him home.

“I’m… I’m worried I’m losing him, Major Wilson,” Bucky confesses, and feels a strange weight lifting, the secret cracked open already and now shared more freely around jagged edges. Wilson glances over at him but quickly sweeps his attention back to the road before Bucky continues. “Worried he’s going to forget who he is.”

Wilson takes his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down briefly before he sighs. “The first night I came home with Steve. I noticed that scar on his leg. We don’t talk about our service, never have, but that’s one hell of a scar to not have a story. It took a while, but eventually Steve told me the unofficial version of Operation Lemurian Star. Zola. The thing he got stung with. Waking up to you sucking the poison out.” Wilson nods. “Never mentioned you were an SCF.”

Bucky swallows. Steve probably hadn’t lied, that’s not like him at all, but he did have a bad habit of referring to Bucky in a way that other service members never would. Companion felines aren’t soldiers, aren’t supposed to be thought of as equals. Steve always treated him as if he were just another enlisted soldier, and always referred to him by his unofficial rank. No wonder Wilson felt mislead.

Wilson pulls into the loading zone in front of Steve’s building, and puts the car into park. “Think you can do it again?”

Bucky frowns down at his hands, twisted up in his lap, understanding now what Wilson is saying. The poison in Steve’s leg, using his mouth to sterilize it, saving him from becoming like Captain Ward. “I don’t know. The last time I saw him without this,” Bucky starts, touching the muzzle in his lap. “I almost killed him.”

“I’ve seen the bruises,” Wilson tells him, and Bucky’s heart sinks, because Bucky hadn’t. Sam goes on, still tense, but sincere. “Steve is tough, the toughest man I’ve ever met, but problem with being tough is that he never knows when he actually needs help. He’d run right off a cliff if it meant saving someone he loves, but when it comes to asking that same person to catch him when he falls…”

“Too many metaphors,” Bucky says, shaking his head and Wilson gusts out a laugh.

“I want you to do your job,” Wilson says, and snatches the muzzle up. He pops open the back, inviting Bucky forward. “I want you to save our boy.”

This is a terrible idea. Bucky looks at Wilson in the eye, tries to see any hint the man might have any ulterior motive, but of course he finds none. Sam Wilson loves Steve. Loves him enough to send Bucky to him, in order to save him. Unlike General Rogers, who loves his son only as much as it gives him an excuse to control his life.

Bucky puts his face into the muzzle and leans into the Major while he fastens the clasps on the back of his head. He’s quick, clearly having done this before.

“Thank you,” Bucky tells him, before he slips out of the car without another word and heads inside.

* * *

Steve has worn his blue mess uniform exactly once before, when his father received his third star and Steve had just made O-3 Captain. He had to dig it out from the back of Bucky’s old closet, and had to try on the tuxedo shirt and that damn cumberbund to make sure it all still fit. Once that is done (with minimal embarrassment, thank god,) he has to track down all the junk that goes with it, from the blue suspenders to the chained buttons and shiny white inspection gloves. He uses a ruler to properly line up his JCS badge beneath the rack of actual medals pinned along the left breast. The purple heart is the last medal we was awarded, and he doesn’t mind that it rests at the end of the line, dark and so very different from all the reds and golds of the others.

Steve even goes through the trouble of polishing a brand new pair of oxfords until he can see his own face in them. He wants to look his best for tomorrow, considering he’ll be the one to hand the Nobel Peace Prize to the President of the United States.

It was a surprise when he found out the president’s rehearsal was held at a secure location, rather than the gala venue, but the man is both busy and well protected so it makes sense they didn’t want to send the entire motorcade down town. Still, it’s disappointing that he has to miss out on his last day with Bucky. Lieutenant Lorraine assured him the first runthrough had gone fine, though he wishes Bucky would also text him back. He finally zips up the garment bag with his uniform, all ready for tomorrow, when there’s a timid knock on the door. The handle turns before he can reach it, and the sensation of a stranger entering his house makes Steve startle.

“Bucky!” Bucky’s shoulders jump in alarm and his tail goes up, but he takes another step inside and closes the door behind him.

“Major Wilson gave me a ride over,” Bucky explains, and for just an instant Steve forgets, thinks he should go over and offer to remove the muzzle, thinks to offer Bucky some of his leftovers, even though the meatloaf is probably not all that appealing. But Bucky looks a bit stuck there, lingering in the kitchen, and of course he can’t take the muzzle off. Bucky’s ears perk up and he finally speaks up. “I met Director Coulson at the rehearsal.”

“Ah,” Steve says with a smile, and finally finishes tucking his garment bag safely in the hall closet and shuts the door. “How did that go?”

“I hate him,” Bucky admits, and Steve clicks his tongue.

“Well, that’s an improvement from yesterday,” Steve reasons and Bucky shrugs, not arguing. “For the record, I don’t like him either. He’s a means to an end.”

Bucky knows. “I understand.”

Steve keeps the kitchen counter between the two of them, and suddenly becomes painfully aware that he’s wearing nothing but his undershorts and a tee shirt after having tried on his monkey suit. “Um, is there something we need to talk about? Or do you want me to bring you back to the barracks?”

Bucky glances up as if to answer, but his ears make two full rotations before he drops his gaze back down to the floor. Why did Sam drop him off here, if he has nothing to say to him? Dressed like that, in his combat leather, Bucky really should have been brought directly back to the base. “Well, either way I need to get some pants so, hold that thought.”

Steve retreats to his bedroom and regroups, quickly drags some sweat pants stamped with US ARMY in big black letters over his hips and drags an air force hoodie over his head that he’s pretty sure belonged to Sam at one point.

So. What is this all about? Bucky clearly wants to talk about something, maybe about the operation tomorrow, but Steve suspects it’s more than that. It’s strange that they can’t seem to communicate these days, considering how easy it had been, even before they started sleeping together. If Bucky won’t spit it out, then there’s not much Steve can do.

When Steve comes back to the living room he finds Bucky next to the TV, gazing out of the tall windows to the street below, and he doesn’t turn around even when Steve fetches his wallet and his keys from the low bookshelf near his front door. It’s starting to get annoying that he has to be the bad guy, and practically drag the cat back to base these past two nights. “You ready to go, buddy?”

“I guess we don’t really have to,” Bucky says, his tail picking up and giving a single swish to the side. “Curfew in the feline barracks isn’t until twenty-hundred. You’re right that we really haven’t had a chance to talk.” Bucky shrugs, and his tail slips back down in a self conscious curl. “Or anything.”

Steve should really insist that Bucky head back to Fort McNair. He should be conscientious of the fact that Bucky wouldn’t eat or drink around him, and likely has training in the morning, before attending the evening event. Steve is too selfish for any of that, so he tosses his keys on the kitchen counter and smiles, relieved. “Have you seen the premier of Feline-one-one?”

“I missed it,” Bucky says, and Steve immediately forgets any of the thoughts he might have had about bringing Bucky back to Fort McNair, because Bucky’s tail jumps as soon as that stupid show is mentioned. “Do you have it recorded?”

“Maybe,” Steve slyly answers, but Bucky is already folding himself back up into his chair, and all is right in the world.

“We can watch it. One episode. Then I can go back.”

Steve nods. “One episode.”

* * *

Three episodes later, Bucky is so hungry he could eat the upholstery. Steve’s apartment is a little too warm, the sense of danger still surrounding him on all sides, but being there, so close to his human, laughing over Spanky’s ridiculous antics — he simply can’t bring himself to leave.

Bucky hasn’t been exactly miserable with the STRIKE cats, frustrated with how they’re treated and physically pushing himself to the limits, but he’s been occupied and felt a sense of pride for what he’s accomplished with all those young cadets. Still, there’s a six-foot-two-inch gaping hole in his life, and just being around Steve Rogers has made Bucky feel at ease despite the persistent sense of dread. How the hell is he supposed to get him back for good?

Steve’s laugh brings Bucky out of his dark thoughts. “I couldn’t believe Captain Reynolds put on the cat ears,” Steve says, and Bucky laughs through his fangs.

“He didn’t even cover up his human ears!” Bucky’s own ears flutter when he thinks about how silly that looked, four ears on top of that dour human’s head, and winds up scratching at a tickle that caused in his fur while he’s at it.

“It worked though! They got Spanky out of jail!”

“But at what cost, Steve? What _cost_?” Bucky shakes his head with mock solemnity, and Steve rewards him with a sarcastic _snerk_.

That’s apparently when Bucky’s stomach decides to sing an aria of starvation, gurgling in a loud squeal before settling into a low set of rumbles. He wants to laugh at the rude interruption, but Steve cuts him off.

“We should get you back,” he says. “You must be _starving_. What time does the BX close?”

“Not until late,” Bucky says, but he should have said lat _er_ because it’s already late and he’s not ready to go just yet. Major Wilson put his faith in Bucky, that he could do something about Steve, and Bucky has yet to figure out what that is. Instead, Bucky watches the TV set upside down, lying on his back with his shoulders draped over the armrest, waiting for Steve to click ‘next’ as a preview for episode four loads on the screen. When nothing happens he flops over to check if Steve’s lost the remote in the cushions again and finds one sad looking human.

“We should really,” Steve says, even though he clearly hates it. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Bucky’s hand goes to his belly, because now it’s not just hunger twisting him up. “I’m okay,” he says. “One more episode?”

Steve actually smiles at that. “As much as I’d love to Netflix ‘n chill all night…”

Bucky’s stomach punctuates the brief awkward silence with another astonishingly loud plea for food and this time Steve laughs, hard enough that his head tilts back and his hand goes to his own belly as he shakes with it.

Bucky’s heart _aches_ at the sound, the casual intimacy of being so unguarded, so open, even after everything that’s happened between them that month - that _week_! It draws him near, like a magnet, even as the sense of wrongness pushes back, and Bucky has had enough. He drops off the chair on all fours, tail tucked tightly beneath him as he makes his way over to the sofa, leaving any hesitation behind. Steve tenses up only marginally when Bucky reaches him, only watching while he stops to rest his chin on the edge of the sofa, near Steve’s feet.

“Steve,” he says, because he misses saying his name, misses everything about how close they used to be. “I want to try something.” Bucky glances quickly down, catches sight of the ugly bruise left on Steve’s arm. His sleeves are rolled up, after spending hours on the sofa watching television, exposing the nasty bite mark. “If you trust me.”

“I trust you,” Steve answers immediately, desperately, like he’s answering a dozen other questions that Bucky is too scared to ask.

Bucky nods. Now comes the hard part.

The sofa is steeped in that awful sensation, it’s so thick in the air that Bucky can practically smell it by now, even through the muzzle’s stubborn filters. Bucky feels like it’s physically pressing against him, like he has to force his way through some toxic membrane to make his way to Steve’s side.

Steve sits up, drops his feet to the floor, and waits patiently as Bucky crawls over the cushions. It’s hard work, exhausting, like even gravity is working against him, but eventually Bucky settles on the cushion right next to Steve and wraps his tail around his feet as he sits back on his haunches.

“Is it still that bad?” Steve asks. All that earlier happiness still there but frayed on the edges, like Steve is desperately trying to hold onto something that’s long gone.

“It’s worse,” Bucky tells him truthfully. “It’s like you’re swimming in it.”

Steve’s hand suddenly goes to his left thigh and he winces, flexes his quad up and down before he stretches out his foot. “Scar’s been hurting,” he mumbles.

That settles it. Bucky leans forward and tilts his chin down, presenting the back of the muzzle to Steve. “Please unhook me?”

“I don’t think-” Steve sucks in a breath, cutting himself off. “Alright. If you’re sure. I trust you.”

Bucky’s neck practically snaps back when Steve’s hand moves past his line of sight, and Steve flinches. “Fuck sorry,” Bucky pants. He extends his head again, rolls his shoulders. “Ready.”

“Okay…” Steve says, and this time Bucky holds still as those hands work the familiar pattern of clasps on the back of his skull. “It’s open.”

“You take it off,” Bucky instructs him. “Keep hold of it.”

“Okay,” Steve says again, a little more confident this time, and gently eases the muzzle away from Bucky’s face. Bucky is hit in the face full force the moment the seal breaks. The dread floods into him, against him, waves crashing against his shoulders like an ocean attempting to erode his shoreline. It’s overwhelming, terrifying, a nightmare that sets his heart to racing, but Bucky won’t budge. From somewhere far away, Steve asks, “How are we doing?”

“It’s bad,” Bucky says, or at least hopes he says, because a roar has picked up in his ears, like a hammering pulse, like rushing blood. “Bad.”

“Bad enough to put the muzzle back on?”

Bucky shakes his head, because if he talks then he has to open his mouth again, and the waves will slither in, choke him, penetrate him inside and out. Bucky’s eyes finally focus, and he tries to identify whatever he can make out that’s still Steve. That slightly crooked nose. Those three, specific moles. Blue, round eyes framed with dramatic, long eyelashes. Golden hair, broad shoulders. His funny little human ears.

“Steve!” Bucky misses him. He wants him, even now, and feels a shocking stir of arousal when he picks up that precious, familiar scent. Cedarwood and sage, gun metal, the sweat from the long day and the antiseptic on his bandages. Steve, all of it the real Steve, somewhere beneath that tangle of Zola’s influence. Bucky leans forward, carefully planting one hand on the opposite side of Steve’s lap.

“Bucky….” Steve whispers, and there, on his voice, in his breath, Bucky catches an aberration, a buzz that shouldn’t be there, like when he tracked down the specific pitch of General Rogers’ surveillance devices, hidden in the walls.

Bucky could kill Steve in an instant. His mouth is so close to his exposed throat — Steve really doesn’t have any defenses left against him. It takes everything, absolutely everything, to keep his teeth locked together, to keep his tail tucked low, without any counter-balance to maneuver into an attack position. Bucky forces open his sinus, feels like he’s practically resting his chest against the barrier between them, and chases that aberration with his nose.

It leads him across a journey of Steve’s face, those beautiful lips, slightly parted, his proud chin, in need of a shave, his eyebrows, full and drawn up with worry as Bucky inspects him. Bucky can feel his own breath, puffing against Steve’s cheeks, can see a few golden strands of his hair move with it when he scans back, behind his ear.

There. On Steve’s neck. A small, red bump, no more than a bug bite to the naked eye, but Bucky opens his mouth and can see so much deeper than that. There’s a burning, angry ring, like something putrid, acidic, marking his lover’s neck, just above the shoulder.

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, because he has no idea how loud he might be in Steve’s ear. “I won’t hurt you. I swear. I will save you from this.”

“From- from _what_ , Buck?” Steve sounds worried, or scared, and Bucky can’t blame him. He’s keeping his left hand in a fist to keep his claws from escaping, practically standing in Steve’s lap as he creeps his mouth up around Steve’s neck.

Bucky tastes Steve for the first time in weeks, with just the tip of his tongue, and the human shivers beneath him.

“Bucky…”

“Don’t struggle,” Bucky warns him, because if Steve fights him, _really_ fights him, then Bucky isn’t sure where this will wind up going.

Steve’s blood rushes into Bucky’s mouth when he buries his fangs into that spot. Steve gags, grasps onto Bucky’s waist and his feet kick out, but he doesn’t otherwise struggle. It’s a reaction of shock, not so much of self defense. Bucky can taste the infection immediately, recognizes it from Sakhalin, from the heat sink beneath Zola’s lair, sickly sweet and rotten.

“Bucky!” Steve gasps, and his back arches. “It hurts!”

It _must_ hurt; whatever has ahold of Steve is buried deep and refuses to let go. Bucky has his teeth around it, has his tongue lashing across its surface, weakening its hold. Steve cries out again, this time his hands clamp and spasm as his feet kick again. The sound is heartbreaking, devastating, a weaker sound than Bucky has ever heard him utter before, even when he’d been dying back in the Hole. Could this be killing him? Suddenly Bucky eases up, unsure.

“Don’t stop!” Steve suddenly shouts. “I can feel it! I can do this!”

Bucky isn’t alone. Now, Steve knows it too, and that’s all Bucky needs to finally grab ahold of- of-

Bucky walks backward on his knees, tugs his head back and away, drawing it out. Long, wriggling, and deeply veined comes a putrid mass out of Steve’s neck. It’s heavy, fat with fluid, like an engorged snake, and once Bucky draws over a foot of it out it flexes suddenly, dragging him back into Steve’s lap. It’s resisting him.

Bucky snarls, clamps down harder and Steve cries out again, tears leaking from his eyes as his whole face twists in pain. This fucking thing won’t win, it won’t ever win, because Steve has Bucky and Bucky will never let his human be hurt again.

The thing pulses one more time and Bucky tosses his head, wrenches it from side to side. The thing lets loose a burbling noise of protest before suddenly releasing its hold. Bucky spits it out, and it drops to the sofa with a wet _thwack_ where it gives another, weaker thrash, curling back around towards Steve in a meager attempt to return.

Steve gasps, clutching his throat with both hands as he coughs and gags, scrambling backward on the sofa away from the wriggling thing. “Fuck!” He finally rasps out. “Jesus! Fuck!” There’s blood between his fingers and his shoulders heave while he tries to recapture his breath. “What the fuck is that!”

Bucky opens his claws. “Zola,” he says, leaning closer. It’s about a meter long, glistening and wet with some kind of mucous and Steve’s fresh blood, not much more than a tubular membrane with a tapered end. It squirms around, sluggish now that it’s been fully exposed, and Bucky gets the sense that even without any visible sensory organs, it seeks Steve out.

“Kill it,” Steve hisses.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says, but before he can skewer the twisted mess, it releases a burst of putrid air, deflating like an empty intestine, and shrivels into a greasy black streak right before their eyes.

Steve staggers to his feet but over balances immediately. Before he can topple into the coffee table, Bucky lunges forward and gathers him up in his arms. He backsteps away from the sofa, wrestling the heavy human into the hall before Steve can finally walk under his own power, and disentangles himself from Bucky’s embrace. “Wait,” he coughs out, and leans heavily into the wall. “Wait, wait, wait…”

Bucky waits.

Steve pulls his hand away from his throat, inspects the blood on his fingers, and pats the small wound a few times, finding not much more. “Okay,” he starts off slowly, heaves one more cough, before he meets Bucky’s eyes. “That was it? It’s. It’s gone?”

Oh, _Steve_.

Bucky opens his mouth to tell him yes, but his voice won’t work and his eyes start to water, and he flings himself into Steve’s arms, and this time Steve wraps him up in his strong embrace, holding him there, burying his face into Bucky’s neck and clutching him so tightly to his broad chest he might just crush him but it’s _fine_ because it’s _Steve_.

Bucky finally breathes again after he licks at Steve’s neck, his wound no more than a tiny red puncture. It’s salty and clean, the infection removed with whatever piece of Zola that Pierce had left in him. Bucky licks and licks, washing Steve’s whole neck with his tongue, resting his chest against Steve’s, pressing him into the hallway wall while Steve keeps his chin tilted up to give him better access. Steve finally laughs and squirms when Bucky’s tongue finds the sensitive cleft in the back of his ear.

“Okay, pal,” he says, pushing Bucky away and running the back of his hand over the spit-shined half of his face. “That thing was in your _mouth_.”

Good point. “I missed you. I missed you _so_ much. Steve, I don’t- I can’t- It’s just been too much.”

Steve breathes out through his nose and pulls Bucky back in for a tender hug, something a bit softer than their desperate clawing at each other. “I know,” he breathes into Bucky’s scruff. “You saved me, Buck. Just like always.”

“Told you so,” Bucky says, scolding him, because really, the human should know better by now. “I’m with you.”

Bucky’s stomach interrupts their moment when it _yeowls_ for attention, a sharp rising note of aggression, reminding them both that he still hasn't eaten all afternoon and well into the evening. Steve laughs, and presses his head to Bucky’s, resting their foreheads together. “I’ll order food,” he says, grinning. “You brush your teeth.”

* * *

Cats can’t speak and purr at the same time, so Bucky alternates between revving his throat motor and whimpering out small needy noises as he attacks Steve’s whole face with his brand of kisses, rough tongue cutting a wet path across his neck and chin and cheeks and even the tip of his nose. Bucky is halfway in Steve’s arms, chest pressed into Steve’s ribs as he works diligently to kiss every last inch of skin he can reach, while keeping his legs curled up, tail free to chop at the top of the rumpled blankets, back and forth.

Steve never thought he’d laugh so damn hard over having his face covered in someone else’s spit but here he is.

Sushi, showers, and one pair of borrowed pajamas later, and Bucky is basking in the nest he made of Steve’s blankets, writhing and frisky as he licks and licks and licks. It’s not really sexy, especially when he travels a bit too far around Steve’s neck, then spits and coughs when he gets a hair caught in his throat. It’s more like putting things back to the way they were, before Bucky went into heat. The casual intimacy, the lazy exploration, the excited discovery of each other’s strange, yet entirely familiar bodies.

It’s everything Steve’s ever wanted. Strange, how at the beginning of the evening, all he could think about was how swollen with pride he had been, to be selected for the honor of presenting an award to President Pierce.

“I have fantasies, sometimes,” Steve starts, and Bucky hums, letting him know he hears Steve talking, but is working hard on the dip between his collarbone and his shoulder and doesn’t want to stop. “I think about what we’d do together, if things were normal for us. Easy. I’d want to go camping, I think. Up near my mom’s house, where there’s all these amazing waterfalls. I should introduce you to her, some day.”

Bucky finally stops, the little pink tip of his tongue still stuck between his lips when he raises up on his elbows. He looks stunned, concerned, but his little _blep_ is ruining it and Steve laughs. He runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, takes his fluffy ear in a handful and gives him a rough scratch, just where he likes it best. Bucky’s eyes roll back, tail shivering as it curls into his lap, and his tongue retracts fully into his mouth as he purrs happily at the attention. “Not a fan of meeting mom, huh?”

Bucky swallows, interrupting his purr, and settles down, chin resting on Steve’s shoulder. “Hmm,” he mumbles, and goes quiet for a long time. Finally, he blows out a sigh. “You’ve mentioned meeting her before. Since you met my mom.”

Steve rubs Bucky’s back, gently tracing the seam where metal meets flesh on each upward swipe. “It’s not just that,” he says. “I know I haven’t made it easy to understand, but my mom is an important person to me. I trust her.”

Bucky seems to think about that for a moment, and Steve lets the discussion fade into the peaceful silence. There’s no need to rush this conversation. It’s difficult enough as it is, even while pretending there is any hope at all of having a normal life after this weekend.

“Tony knows,” Bucky finally says, and Steve’s hand stills for a moment.

“I figured,” Steve admits. “He’s your friend. I should have told Sam, before he found out like that.”

“We should have been more careful,” Bucky mumbles. “So many people know. Too many.”

Steve gently shakes his head. He’s starting to feel a bit sleepy after the big meal, already exhausted after whatever happened on the sofa beforehand. He doesn’t even want to think about that, not now, so he holds Bucky closer, leveraging him up a bit higher so that he could free his arm and reach Bucky’s tail.

“Isn’t it better that a few people know? Just close friends. Family. We can’t keep who we are entirely secret from _everyone_.” Steve strokes the fur at Bucky’s lower back, where it joins with the thick base of his tail, and Bucky arches his spine, hips flexing as he draws in a breath. “Can we?”

“Hmm…” Bucky trails off, obviously unconvinced. “Major Wilson knows, and he is mad about it. Your father knows, and he is mad about it. The other cats, they would tear me apart for it. Would your mother be mad about it?”

Good question. Steve takes time to think, still holding Bucky close, smelling the fresh shampoo in his hair, enjoying the heat radiating into his chest, like a furnace. He can hear the brush of wooly fur against his blanket as Bucky’s tail continues its thoughtful sweep. “I think she’d maybe be sad about it. She’s a sympathetic person and I think she would know exactly how careful we have to be, and how difficult it makes things for us.”

“For you,” Bucky points out, and Steve isn’t sure he can deny that distinction, so he doesn’t argue the point.

“Do you ever miss yours?”

“Hmm?” Bucky’s eyes flutter back open, after he started dozing from the long silence. “My what?”

“Your mom.”

Bucky goes stiff, his tail drops like a heavy rope. “I-” Bucky swallows. “I don’t really think about her. About any of them.” Steve can feel Bucky’s smile against his chest, and knows it’s fake. “Cat’s don’t really care about family the same way humans do.”

Steve can’t find the words to answer Bucky’s sad lie, and now he regrets bringing it up. “Disneyland,” Steve blurts out.

Bucky snorts.

“No, I’m serious,” Steve says. “You’re right. Maybe people knowing is a bit too dangerous, and complicated. Disneyland, though. Bucky, it’s _amazing._ I can’t wait to bring you there.”

“I’ve seen commercials. Weird humanoid rodent mascot, right?”

“Oh, Buck. Mickey is the best. I just- Don’t worry. We’ll go in the summer sometime. It’ll be perfect. Plus there’s so many people there, tons of people with cats and children and kits running around. No one will notice us there, together. So there, that’s my back-up fantasy, next to meeting mom and going camping.”

Bucky chuckles, and Steve can tell it’s more because he’s charmed by Steve rather than the idea of going to the Happiest Place on Earth. So maybe it’s a _little_ childish, but that’s what fantasies are for. “What would yours be?”

“My fantasy?” Bucky clicks his tongue and takes a breath, trying to think of an answer. “I want to eat in a restaurant.”

“Which one?”

“Any one,” Bucky says with a shrug, and snuggles down deeper, so that he can rest the whole weight of his head on Steve’s chest. His tail is curled tightly around his own hip, feet tucked into the folds of the bed spread. “Never been to one before.”

“What? Of course you have,” Steve frowns. Hadn’t he? They went to a cafe together, he knows that for sure. Had they never actually gone out to eat in a restaurant? _Ever_?

“No,” Bucky says. “They do on TV all the time. They dress up nice, go to some place where it’s quiet. Not like the cafeteria at all. They always get wine and bread and the people who work there bring them food on big white plates.”

“Big white—” Steve’s never thought of it that way before. Of course, most restaurants on television are entirely fake, and the things Bucky focuses as he talks about it aren’t exactly what Steve finds nice about eating out but, that’s his fantasy, humble as it is. “Yeah. The waiters can make recommendations too, if you don’t know what to order. If you go to a nice enough place, they will even prepare you something special.”

“Yeah?” Bucky lifts his head up briefly, eyes wide wish surprise. “Wow.”

Steve smiles slyly, and gives Bucky a little nudge with his hip. “They have amazing restaurants in Disneyland.”

Bucky erupts with laughter, practically shouting as he tumbles right out of Steve’s embrace. His whole face scrunches up as he falls over, and tosses his metal arm over his eyes as he laughs, and laughs.

“What?” Steve says, and he’s laughing too even though he doesn’t get the joke.

“You’re so- so _determined_!” Bucky says, still shaking with it. “Still the Star Spangled Man With a Plan!”

“Oh my god,” Steve rolls his eyes, and when Bucky flops over to crawl back into Steve’s lap he presses his hand into Bucky’s face and shoves him back into the blankets. “That’s strike three for you, buddy. You’re not allowed in my bed anymore. Out!”

Bucky laughs again, wriggles out from under Steve’s grip, slippery as a snake. He leaps all the way to the foot of the bed, dodges a pillow when Steve chucks it at his head, then before Steve can grab another one to defend himself, Bucky pounces. He takes ahold of both of Steve’s wrists, pinning his arms to the headboard as he straddles him. They are now so close their chests brush together, and suddenly there’s not much left to laugh about.

Bucky looks him right in the eyes, grinning so widely Steve can see all his sharp teeth. “Make me, human.”

Steve presses his mouth to Bucky’s, capturing that smile and that laughter and all the cat’s dominance in a kiss that he’s been aching for so badly in the past few weeks. It built up like a storm, just outside of his line of sight, and now that it’s struck Steve doesn’t know how he could have lasted this long without it. Now it’s his turn to whimper, needy and helpless, still pinned under Bucky’s grip as the cat kisses him back, gently at first and then suddenly, with a nip on Steve’s lip, swipes his barbed tongue inside and Steve just about loses it.

“Buck,” he breathes between Bucky’s lips. “Bucky, I want you.”

Bucky responds by rolling his hips forward, grinding the heat between his thighs right into Steve’s cock, letting him know just how much Bucky wants him back. Steve’s elbows wack the headboard when he struggles against Bucky’s grip and fails to break it, so his hips thrust up instead, getting the friction he craves almost as much as the embrace. Bucky rewards him with a gasp and a moan, right into his mouth, as he tries to hold onto his dominance through the distraction.

Bucky is bigger than he was the last time they did this, stronger, his shoulders filled in a shape that resembles something closer to when he was in his peak form, back on Sakhalin. Steve fucking loves it. He trusts again, lifting his hips right off the mattress and this time he can feel Bucky’s stiffening cock through the soft cotton of his pajamas. Bucky utters a broken cry, resting his own forehead onto Steve’s as his back arches and his tail lifts up and up. Steve knows he’s just about got him, so he lifts his head off his pillow long enough to nip at Bucky’s bottom lip, then wetly asks, “You want me too, kitten?”

“ _Ohfuck,_ ” Bucky blurts out, and unshackles Steve’s arms, leaving him free to grab ahold of Bucky’s hip with one hand, and send the other down the middle of his back. Steve presses into the root of Bucky’s tail, and he feels the bones twitch under his grip, even through the thick fur. “Oh! Fuck!”

Steve hooks one foot around Bucky’s hip, tosses his shoulder into the crook of Bucky’s elbow, and in one smooth motion has the cat flat on his back, whimpering and asking for more. Steve is just as hungry, reclaims Bucky’s mouth and sends his left hand down the firm ridges of Bucky’s flexing stomach. Bucky thrusts into his palm, and Steve takes ahold of his cock, giving it a gentle stroke, just to get reaquainted with his body. Bucky squirms and pants, and Steve licks into that sharp little mouth as the cat works up more heat by pumping into his grip.

“Steve,” Bucky practically mewls, and licks out every time Steve breaks from kissing him. “Steve, Steve…”

“I’m here,” Steve whispers, even though he has no idea how he knows that’s the answer Bucky needs. “I’m back.”

“Fucking- Oh, Steve. I fucking love you so much. Need you.”

“Mmm,” Steve props himself up on his elbow, and releases Bucky’s precome slicked cock just long enough to wrap his fingers around his warm balls, rolling them gently as he feels the heat spread. “I know. I was lost without you. I was-”

Steve freezes, only partway to kissing Bucky’s neck before he spots the ugly purple stripe there.

“What?” Bucky asks, speaking barely above a whisper, their faces so close that Steve can feel the puff of his question on his cheek. “What is it?”

Steve takes his hand out of Bucky’s pants and traces the line of Bucky’s bright red collar instead. “This still hurt?”

Bucky blinks. “I barely notice it.”

That can’t be true, Steve thinks, and gently lets his fingers rest on the complicated buckle of Bucky’s collar. It’s coded to Steve, and like the muzzle, nearly impossible for Bucky to remove on his own. Steve is pretty sure the only time he saw Bucky without it was when he was on the operating table at Stark Industries, and in the Red Room at the CFC.

“Hold still,” Steve tells him, and slips open the buckle. Bucky sucks in a breath and his eyes go wide with alarm, then slam shut as the collar releases.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, and his whole body goes stiff all at once, before his hand shoots up to grab Steve’s arm.

Steve curses when the metal hand clamps down around his forearm, right over the healing pressure bite, and Bucky’s collar hits the mattress with a clatter, metal license striking the buckle like a bell. Bucky releases him immediately, startled by Steve’s obvious flinch of pain. Steve sits back, still straddling Bucky’s hips, and Bucky shifts beneath him, so that he can take Steve’s injured arm in both hands.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, and runs a thumb over Steve’s bruise. Bucky can be surprisingly tender, even with an arm made out of metal and concealing such dangerous claws. “I did this. Didn’t I.”

“I barely notice it,” Steve tells him, smiling out of the side of his mouth.

Bucky slides his grip down, curls Steve’s fingers into his own hands, and kisses the tops of his knuckles with the slightest brush of his lips, slow and intense, like he’s whispering promises between each finger.

“It was good to be reminded,” Steve slowly says, dropping his sarcastic response, and Bucky glances up at him with those bright, blue eyes.

Bucky brushes his throat with the back of his metal hand before he surprises Steve by agreeing. “Yes,” he says, touching the bruise, ever so slightly. “This too. A reminder that we’re different.” Bucky glances at his collar, and Steve isn’t sure what comes next. The heat between their bodies has flagged, put on hold while they come to terms with how dangerous this really is, with how easily they can hurt each other, Bucky with his raw strength and predatory instincts, and Steve with his position of power, his authority, his control over Bucky’s life.

“I should have asked to take this off,” Steve says, finally understanding Bucky’s brief moment of panic. He takes the collar from the bed and holds it in both hands, while Bucky looks up at him, still flat against the mattress beneath him.

“I should have trusted you to do it,” Bucky says, with a little shrug, trying to look brave even as his eyes dart back to the precious license. “I should be able to be comfortable without one.”

That immediately reminds Steve of something, and he leans forward, just far enough to reach his bedside table. “Let me show you something,” Steve murmurs, and digs around in the drawer. How could things get tangled up and lost in a drawer he hardly ever uses? Finally, his fingertips brush against the cool metal of what he’s looking for, and he draws out the long ball-link chain. The dog tags at the end catch at the edge of the drawer before he tugs them free and brings them into his lap, where he’s rested back on Bucky’s lap.

“I don’t need to wear these anymore, in my position,” Steve explains. “After I lost you, after Sakhalin, I had a hard time understanding what I was supposed to do next. When my father gave me this ultimatum, to join the Joint Chiefs or be dishonorably discharged, I thought to myself, I really _earned_ that discharge. I was too much of a coward to go through with it, but…”

Steve runs his thumb over the stamped metal tag, still printed with his captain’s rank, his serial number, his blood type. “Dog tags are for _soldiers_ ,” Steve says, making it clear that he himself was no longer one, not really. “I just wasn’t comfortable wearing it, knowing that.”

Bucky takes ahold of one of Steve’s matched set of tags in his flesh hand, where it dangles down out of Steve’s grip. “I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more lost in my life,” Bucky says. “Than when they cut the dog tag off my neck at the CFC, right before I was discharged onto the street. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, either.”

Steve doesn’t think Bucky looks sad, just confused, thinking over the parallel, over the choices the two of them have made, and how they keep finding these common intersections of their very different lives. “So,” Steve starts with a sigh. “What does it even mean? Tags or no tags?”

Bucky chuffs, then snatches the dogtags from Steve’s loose hold on them. “I think we should fuck,” he tells him in no uncertain terms, and tosses the tags to the other side of the bed with his own collar. “Let’s feel sorry for ourselves later.”

* * *

Bucky doesn’t know how much time passes, but he suspects somewhere between several hours and who the fuck cares. They take their time to explore each others’ bodies, tracing fingers trailing a line of goosebumps in their wake and mouths exploring hot, pink flesh. The salt of their sweat mixes with heady leaking precome into an intoxicating cocktail of scent that makes Bucky drunk and hyperfocused all at the same time.

There’s no rush, nothing coming between them and this moment they waited so long for. It’s slow, deliberate, a tactical plan to wring out every ounce of pleasure and leave them both slick and gasping as Bucky rides Steve’s lap, legs folded around the human’s slim waist where he sits cross-legged, propped up against his headboard. Bucky’s arms make a tight knot around Steve’s shoulders, keeping their bodies merged together. Steve himself holds Bucky around the waist with one arm, hugging him just as tight, while his other has a firm grip on the muscle of Bucky’s ass as he thrusts slowly up into him.

There’s a molten pool of desire burning between them as their bellies roll into each other, slippery on either side of Bucky’s aching dick where it’s pressed between them. Each gasp and whimper sends a bolt of pleasure up Bucky’s spine and he feels Steve’s cock, fitted perfectly inside his own body, pulsing as he slowly moves, inch by delicious inch. Steve kisses his ears, kisses his eyes, kisses his lips, tilts his chin up and brushes those wet, swollen lips down his throat until Bucky arches further, exposing his throat and encouraging even more. Steve puffs out a hot laugh against Bucky’s adamsapple, kisses him in time with another gentle thrust of his hips.

Bucky gasps, tightens his grip around Steve’s shoulders, squeezing their chests even tighter together. “Steve,” he whispers, although he asks for nothing he isn’t already receiving. It’s simply a mantra by now, saying his human’s name, feeling that hard _‘S’_ roll past his own lips as his slick body slips against Steve’s own. “Steve, Steve…”

“Mmm,” Steve mumbles, because he knows he doesn’t have to answer, not really, and he’s enjoying the long, lazy kisses he leaves across Bucky’s naked throat, his exposed collarbone, his metal shoulder.

The sex hasn’t been mounting towards anything for a long time. Steve paces himself, urging his hips upward in slow, measured thrusts, relaxing with Bucky while they ride out the gently rolling waves of lust together with casual affection. Pleasure just for the sake of pleasure.

It’s the kind of intimacy that Bucky never knew existed, the kind that surpasses any relationship he could have had with his family, with his fellow SCFs, even with his bonded twin. The kind reserved only for the most intense kind of lover. Bucky is almost certain it would be impossible to feel this way with another feline.

“Steve,” he whines again, riding out another deep roll of Steve’s hips. Bucky is so open and exposed and fragile at the moment that he doesn’t mind letting the neediness turn his voice inside out. He tucks his head under Steve’s chin, bunting the tops of his ears into his human’s exposed throat. “I love you, I love you.”

A shiver runs through Steve, and he swallows hard enough that Bucky can feel his throat contract with the effort through his sweat matted fur. “Oh, Buck…”

Steve’s hips lift again, this time the wave of pleasure crests even higher, and Steve’s grip on Bucky’s ass flexes until Bucky can feel it in his bones. Bucky cries out before he bites his own lip, electricity arcing between every strand of fur on his tail when Steve’s cock finds something inside him that causes stars to burst behind his eyes, and the molten need in his gut suddenly rises up and spills over. “Steve! _Oh!_ ”

Bucky’s plea is swallowed up when Steve engulfs him in an embrace, crushing him possessively to his heaving chest, fingers threaded into Bucky’s hair where he holds Bucky’s face against his shoulder. His thrusts pick up speed and his mouth goes to the patch of Bucky’s scruff behind the hinge of his jaw, teeth clamping down in a gentle bite that lights more fireworks in the dark heat behind Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky shouts as his orgasm locks up his whole body, then Steve’s hand drops down from the back of his head to the base of his tail and twists at the wrist to stretch the bones apart. Bucky’s throat unlocks, gasps in a deep breath that makes his heart stutter, and a deep, low roar bellows out of his chest before he can stop it. Steve grunts and holds on, his fist around Bucky’s tail and his teeth claiming Bucky’s scruff with his bite. Steve manages another few thrusts before his own trembling orgasm overcomes him.

Even with hips locked up, spine flaring hot ecstasy, Bucky can feel Steve’s cock pulse inside him, filling him up with Steve’s hot come and his beloved scent. “Oh my god!” Steve gulps, before he drops back so hard his head _thwacks_ against the headboard. He eases his grip off of Bucky’s tail, then rubs the fur there, warming away the cold pain that suddenly takes the place of the shocking pleasure.

Bucky’s hips are still locked forward. His cock has finally finished spilling his own orgasm across Steve’s heaving chest.

“Oh, Bucky,” Steve gasps, and holds Bucky’s cheek in one hand while he continues to rub his tail. Steve’s eyes are wet, bright red mouth quivering as he tries to catch his breath. He gazes up and tries to find the words he needs. “My Bucky…”

Bucky doesn’t see Steve like this very often, incapable of stringing together a coherent sentence, so he hides his grin in Steve’s broad palm, and licks him there before he winds up laughing at his precious human. Steve reaches up to scratch his ear and Bucky rolls his neck, letting his head fall heavily to the side to let him reach more easily.

“Mmm, s’nice,” Bucky mumbles, then takes a breath when his body finally loosens up. He's so exhausted that he just lets himself topple off Steve’s softening cock, but Steve jolts upright to catch him.

“ _Whoa_ , buddy,” Steve laughs, holding Bucky at the hip, then eases him more gently to the mattress with both hands, arms wobbling from the effort. Bucky winces when he feels Steve slip free from his clenching muscles, but the blankets are soft and cool and he stretches luxuriously over them as Steve mops up his front with discarded pajamas.

“I don’t know about you,” Steve says, chucking the pajamas to the floor and finally collapsing into the sweat darkened pillows. “But I can’t exactly think of a reason for us to feel sorry for ourselves now.”

Bucky laughs, wipes the tears from his eyes, and laughs again, so hard that he manages to wake up his numb tail. It flicks behind him when he curls back up against Steve’s side and he kisses Steve’s chest before he swipes a few casual licks across his salty nipple.

Steve gets an arm under Bucky’s shoulders, drops a few kisses on top of his head before he inhales deeply. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Bucky confirms, just as a yawn interrupts him. He had so much energy a moment ago and now he thinks he is relearning what it means to be drowsy. “Needed this more than I realized, I think.”

“Not your heat flaring up, was it?” Steve asks and Bucky _snerks_.

“No. That gave me all kinds of weird sex dreams,” Bucky is rambling, but things are starting to get a bit blurry and he has to yawn again.

“Sex dreams, huh?” Steve nudges him but Bucky can’t be bothered to answer right away.

“Yeah, like. You as a feline,” Bucky admits, snuggling deeper against Steve when he feels his hair nudged gently away from his face, tucked around the curve of his jaw. “What that’d be like, if you were one.”

“Ah,” Steve says, and goes back to stroking Bucky’s ear. “So what’s the verdict? Would I make a sexy cat?”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “No way. Too big. You’d have to be smaller to make up for your big mouth.” Awkwardly, Brooklyn’s smaller body is conjured up in Bucky’s imagination, combined with Steve’s fat head, and Bucky nuzzles his face into Steve’s armpit to hide his embarrassment while the human laughs.

“What the hell, Buck…”

Whatever Steve might have said after that isn’t really important, because Bucky is already drifting off. There’s no reason to get up, get showered, get dressed. He won’t be going back to Fort McNair tonight. They didn’t have to say a word about it, didn’t even question it before they fell into bed together. Bucky is home now, and doesn’t need to go back to his solitary life, or segregated with other members of his kind.

Steve is his family, his other half, more a part of him than his own arm, and they only have one more precious day together before — Bucky suspects — it will all be torn down around them.

* * *

**WARNING!! NSFW Art!!! Scroll down to see!**

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Bucky really enjoying himself, right where he belongs by [Hopeless Geek](https://hopelessartgeek.tumblr.com/post/166195992986/this-was-a-commission-i-did-for-resinonao3-from)! 

 

And Steve finally finding the courage to try the same by [Cobalt Moony](https://cobaltmoonysart.tumblr.com/post/160518845816/snow-leopard-bucky-steve-loves-to-play-with-his)! 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I hoped to make up for the long wait of the next chapter with this one, coming in hot with a little something extra steamy. Thank you all so much for sticking with this fic for so long, and enduring long waits between chapters!


	28. By His Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER:   
> I added a disclaimer to the beginning of this fic, but figure I should include it now for ongoing readers. This setting deals with drastically altered political history which leads to different relations between nations in the present. This is not meant to be judgment or commentary on real-world politics, but just different circumstances that affect the plot throughout the series. The main countries discussed are Russia, China, Japan and the United States.
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

The Warner Theater had been gorgeous when Steve dropped by the day before, but when he passes the feline honor guard into the crowded lobby it takes his breath away.

A feline waiter offers him a flute of champagne on a silver tray and he takes it just to be polite, but doesn’t drink any as they make another turn around the promenade. The twinkling lights of lit chandeliers bounce off the long, vaulted ceilings with all their fantastical scenes cut in gold relief. From the brushed red carpets to the heavy, corded curtains, the polished mahogany bar, and gleaming pale marble, everything is awash in dramatic molten orange, warm and moody.

Steve feels like he stepped either into a palace or Dracula’s lair.

That’s to say nothing of the attendees, which consist of no less than Washington DC’s premier elite. Steve isn’t surprised in the least that they came dressed as if all their future campaigns will depend on outdoing their fellow politicians. Senators stroll around the lower promenade in stunning tuxedos and flowing gowns; high ranking military personnel strut proudly in their finest mess uniforms; and various heads of state represent their own nations in foreign uniforms draped with brightly colored sashes. Among them are the felines, American and Japanese purebreds through and through, collared in gold and diamonds. Living, breathing bragging rights for their human license holders.

Steve felt over-dressed in his formal uniform when he left his apartment, but he might as well be wearing his pajamas compared to the layers of silver lace cascading down the back of a feline that he catches sight of walking up the stairs to the upper level. Her bright white tail is instantly familiar, and Steve recognizes the White Queen from the CFC kennel. Frost bows to a Supreme Court Justice, who thanks her for the glass champaign before going on with her conversation. Frost certainly did well for herself, Steve thinks.

“Fancy,” Bucky quietly observes, following Steve’s line of sight.

“Sometimes I think we’re the best country in the world at managing appearances,” Steve mumbles under his breath, catching sight of Frost’s thin, elegant collar, glinting gold in the shining lights.

Right as Steve takes a sip of his drink, Bucky chooses that moment to say, “And here I thought you’d been to Japan.”

Because he’s a sarcastic asshole, or maybe because Bucky is, Steve nearly inhales the champagne into his lungs as he chokes on a laugh, and the bubbles take a detour up his nose.

“Captain Rogers?” Comes a female voice behind him, and he spins around while spitting his expensive beverage back into his own glass with an unattractive hack. The staff writer for National Defense Magazine drops an elevator look from his red face down to his polished shoes and back up again as he collects himself. “I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”

“No! It’s fine,” Steve wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his white gloved hand, and immediately leaves his frothy flute on a passing waiter’s tray. He should have known better than to drink tonight anyway. “How are you enjoying yourself so far, Vivienne?”

“Honestly? It’s a little dull,” she says with a conspiratory wink, then turns to Bucky with an appraising nod. “You’re a lot bigger than I pictured over the phone.”

“Not sure if I should be flattered by that, ma’am,” Bucky says, his voice hitting a boyish tone that Steve hasn’t heard since their early days on the press tour, conducting interviews while Bucky tried on designer feline fashion. “You’re the second person who told me I’ve been getting beefy lately.” Bucky pats his belly, as if has any business worrying over his wasp-narrow waistline. “I hope I’m not too disappointing to look at,” he adds, with a swish of his magnificent tail.

Steve just barely avoids rolling his eyes when Vivienne giggles and tosses her long, dark curls over her shoulder. Here Steve is, trying to remember if she’s the same editor who hounded him on the future of the SCF program’s funding since Stark Industries announced their pro-bono contributions, while Bucky just went in for the kill. Vivienne is a seasoned defense editor, with a bullshit detector honed to a razor’s edge, but her large dark eyes flutter as she laughs like a teenager while smoothing down the front of her blue sequined dress. That cat is damn smooth with the ladies.

“I can certainly see I missed out when I had to take our interview over conference call,” Vivienne continues, before her tone abruptly switches, and Steve already knows what’s coming before she asks it. “I’m mostly interested in what this prize will mean for the President’s policy regarding the continued military protection of the ESPO pipeline. Care to comment on that, Captain?”

Time to go to work. Steve dusts off his ‘dancing monkey’ smile, and falls back on his training to answer. “The Nobel Peace Prize is an incredible honor, both for President Pierce and for the United States, and only further justifies the course we’re setting with this pipeline. By opening trade relations with China, we’re offered a rare opportunity to unite all nations of the world for the first time since before the first World War.” Steve pauses for emphasis, letting the bold statement settle while he considers his champaign and brings it back around to wrap up his answer. “This means that it will remain a priority for the United States and her military.”

Vivienne nods thoughtfully. “I believe General Joseph Rogers — that is, your father — was instrumental in brokering this deal with both Standard Oil and the Chinese Emperor. Care to comment on that?”

Steve opens his mouth, a well rehearsed answer to this very question on the tip of his tongue, but President Pierce’s face flickers behind his eyes instead, swallows him whole and leaves him with nothing to say. Vivienne lifts her chin, still expecting an answer, and all Steve can do is clench his teeth, hoping the wrong one doesn’t fall out.

“General Rogers has been instrumental in managing the negotiations for the United States.” Bucky breaks in so quickly that Vivienne might have missed the cat covering for Steve’s flub. “But this deal took painstaking work and dedication towards a common goal for all three nations in order to succeed.” Bucky takes the slightest step and modestly averts his gaze to the floor. “It’s all very much above my head, of course.”

“Is that so?” Vivienne asks Steve, but he can’t answer, not while doubt has suddenly sprung up inside him like a weed. Instead, he makes an excuse as fast as he can and leaves. He just needs to get out of her line of fire, needs a moment to breathe. Did it just get warmer?

Bucky catches up when Steve’s already halfway up the stairs towards the mezzanine. He finally stops at the bannister overlooking the stretch of promenade leading to the front doors, anchoring himself against the polished marble. He feels slightly motion sick, like he was literally knocked through a loop by Vivienne’s relatively innocuous question.

“Captain Rogers,” Bucky says, forcing his voice to carry through the muzzle. The crowd is thinner upstairs, but the din of too many people in too small a space has already grown since they arrived, rising up through the theater’s elegant levels like high tide. “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. Are you feeling okay, sir?”

“Fine, fine,” Steve gusts out the lie, looking at the faces around him, below him, hunting for someone, _anyone_ familiar. It doesn’t even matter who, just someone he can identify without the President’s face swimming into view, memories of that sting, and Christ, even of the way the man _smelled_ taking over all his senses.

Steve still knows Pierce is the enemy, so why does he suddenly feel so hollow? Like something important and critical to function has been scooped out of him. It’s not that any of the forced loyalty remains, but there is something there, lingering just beyond his reach, a phantom vestigial limb. It’s like he misses feeling that mindless adoration, like something inside him grieves for the sudden loss of utterly unquestioned faith.

Steve swallows against the surge of bile in his throat, and this time meets Bucky’s eyes. “I just got a little turned around.”

“About General Rogers?”

“What?” Why would Bucky bring up his father now? He’s having a hard enough time dealing with Pierce, memories of that moment in his office, that hug, the sting on his neck… “No, about Pierce.”

“Pierce?” Bucky’s ears go back and his eyes narrow briefly with concern. “Why? She didn’t ask about Pierce.”

“She didn’t?” Steve tries to remember the question, but he struggles through a fog that collects around his thoughts. How could it be possible to forget a conversation he had less than a minute ago? “I don’t- Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir. She asked about General Rogers brokering the deal about the ESPO pipeline between Standard Oil and China,” Bucky explains. He’s being patient with Steve, but there’s an edge of concern in his voice. Earlier that morning, Steve confessed to Bucky about the last two weeks, explained how Pierce’s influence had effected him, turned his sense of pride and loyalty inside out. Steve watches the cat’s eyes flick down to the spot that still tingles beneath his tuxedo’s elegant collar, suspicion making Bucky’s ears turn in a semicircle. “She didn’t say a thing about the President.”

“Sorry, Buck…” General Joseph Rogers, Steve’s father. That’s who Vivienne had asked him about. Other than living with his nose firmly planted between Pierce’s asscheeks, the two men have very little to do with one another. He needs to do a better job keeping them straight in his head.

“ _Bucky_ , sir.”

Steve winces because he fucked that one up all on his own. He can’t go around calling the Winter Soldier a nickname in front of god and everyone. “Right. It just. Slipped out.”

Steve still feels hot. He hooks a finger behind his collar again, imagining what it will be like to stand next to the man on stage, to honor him with a salute, and hand him a medal of peace. Would Pierce know just by looking at him that Bucky had pulled that piece of him out? Steve himself can feel the absence where that thing had wormed its way inside and took up residence, knows it’s long gone, but maybe it’s already done its job. Maybe Steve still carries around the infection in his blood. Maybe he’ll never be truly free of it.

Bucky watches him squirm, but before the cat can say anything Steve turns away. “I need to use the restroom. Think you’ll be okay on your own for a few minutes?”

It’s hard to tell exactly how much bullshit Bucky is calling on him behind the muzzle, but judging by his sharply angled ears it’s enough to make Steve realize the stubborn cat isn’t interested in following his signal to break off.

“I should come with you,” Bucky says, his stiff tail insisting on it with a twitch.

Maybe Steve jumped the gun breaking off so early, but if Bucky sticks by Steve’s side all night he’ll never be open for Panther’s cats to approach him. Technically, this is part of the plan, even if it’s also covering for the chaos going on inside him.

“Just need some air,” Steve says with a gentle smile, trying to show the cat that everything’s okay. “I’ll be back.”

Bucky plants his feet, not quite throwing a tantrum but almost, and the metal plates of his arm shutter closed. The tip of his tail continues to twitch behind his boot and he glares at Steve when he answers, “Don’t do anything stupid, sir.”

“Leaving all the stupid here til’ I get back,” Steve immediately returns, and Bucky’s amused snort is as reassuring as it is rude. He loves the brat so much he almost stays.

* * *

Bucky watches Steve get swallowed up in a swirl of skirts and coattails before his temporary good mood evaporates and the worry comes right back. There is nothing left of Zola in Steve, not a single, lingering thread that could be dominating him or twisting up his thoughts around President _fucking_ Pierce, but something’s definitely wrong.

They cleaned up the thing on the sofa that morning, rolled it up in plastic and left it for ‘a friend’ to come collect, whatever that meant. Steve had been quiet about it at first, his eyes losing focus somewhere in the middle-distance, before finally, once he had a cup of coffee and Bucky was sitting quietly at the table beside him, cracked open like an egg.

After Steve explained everything, Bucky figured it must have been an awful lot like being dominated by an undesirable mate, only a thousand times more potent. It’s difficult for Steve to admit these things, to explain what he feels was an utter violation of his free will in human terms, but Bucky understood when Steve haltingly described his compulsion to please Pierce.

 _‘That piece of shit,’_ Steve had cursed. _‘He called me ‘son,’ and I believed him like a sucker. I wanted it, Buck. I wanted it to be true more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.’_

Now, Steve insists he’s better, insists that he knows exactly who Pierce is, but Bucky’ll be damned if he just sticks around and waits for Panther’s cats to show up while there’s even a chance that Steve could still be hiding something.

As soon as the human vanishes completely from sight down the hallway at the end of the mezzanine, Bucky takes off into the crowd. Screw the Wakanda Movement. Bucky is Steve’s hunter, first and foremost, and like Wilson said, Steve is far too stubborn to come out and ask for help, even dangling over a cliff.

Bucky scans all the party goers upstairs for any sign of the Major, trying to spot either his striking high cheekbones or know-it-all tone of voice. It would be a hell of a lot easier if Bucky could use his damn nose, but he makes due, filtering through the sights and sounds instead; the raucous laughter, conversations, coughs, fizzing drinks and plinking silverware on silver serving dishes. After he’s satisfied that his target isn’t located on the mezzanine he heads back down to the promenade, carefully avoiding eye contact with humans and mostly ignoring the other felines.

 _Wilson, Wilson, Wilson,_ repeats in Bucky’s mind, as his eyes flicker from uniform to uniform without landing on a single Air Force Major’s, bright smiles to flashing grins without spotting the gapped front teeth.

Bucky does a double-take when he catches sight of Brock and Agent Sitwell, posted stiffly in an alcove under the main stairwell, on either side of towering floral arrangements that frame a heavy old door. That’s a pain in the ass Bucky certainly doesn’t need right now, so he heads in the opposite direction, towards the front doors.

Bucky recognizes a few reporters along the way but manages to duck out of their line of sight before they spot him. He’s allowed to speak to the press about a few, very specific topics, but he doesn’t have the time.

He makes it all the way to the front doors without any luck, but hangs out for a few minutes as more beautiful guests arrive. He recognizes Tripp and Chester, his STRIKE cadets on honor guard duty, standing tall and proud in their new dress uniforms while guests continue to pour in from their chauffeured vehicles out front.

The longer Bucky watches, the more frustrated he is when he notices most of the humans ignore them completely, while their pet cats give the SCFs a wide berth, drawing in their tails and ears to show respectful submission as they pass through the doors. That’s hardly the response he would have wanted from the humans. Tripp is one of the best mechanical engineers Bucky has ever served with, and even though Bucky doesn’t know Chester as well, he knows the cat managed to almost catch Pietro in his obstacle course time. To these Very Important Humans, they look like nothing more than glorified bellhops in a fancy hotel rather than dedicated service members of the armed forces. They don’t even look like an honor guard, muzzled as they are.

When is Bucky ever going to learn that this is all felines will ever get to be to humans? At one point in his life, Bucky considered wearing SCF dogtags the height of prestige for a feline, and yet servitude is all they will ever be recognized for, in exchange for being so generously kept. Bucky glances down at his metal arm, for the first time feeling a phantom itch under the red star, which maybe he doesn’t care for so much anymore.

“Bucky,” Brooklyn’s voice draws him back around, and Bucky drops his gaze to the small cat, who materialized beside him when he wasn’t looking. The muzzle looks particularly ridiculous on his narrow face and over-large nose. “We need to talk to you.”

Bucky shakes his head. Brooklyn’s ears can go urgently back all they want, but he still doesn’t have time for this. “Now?”

Pietro stops next to Brooklyn, apparently following him too. “Please, sir? Do you have a minute?”

“No,” Bucky gusts out, rolling his eyes when Pietro’s tail snaps from side to side, like he’s ready to run. “Where are you two supposed to be?”

“We’re relieving Tripp and Ches on the front doors,” Brooklyn explains. “But we needed to-”

“We can talk after,” Bucky says, already turning his ears away from the young cats to scan the crowd. He hopes he hasn’t missed Wilson, if the Major arrived after the younger cats distracted him. “I need to find a human.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Pietro grumbles, just low enough for only the three of them to hear over the din of the crowd through the filters on his face.

“Don’t make me report you to Lopez for dereliction,” Bucky suggests, maybe more peevishly than he intended, and he leaves them to their duty assignments, diving back into the thick of the crowd. What could they possibly need to talk to him about among so many humans? Had he ever been so self-important when he was that young?

Bucky is so focused on finding Wilson, so distracted thinking about his kittens, that a reporter (according to the lanyard around his neck) catches Bucky by the tip of the tail as he rounds the bar, stopping him with a tug that makes Bucky wince. The human taps the red star on his arm with the edge of his phone, before he says in a mildly bored tone, “I have some questions for you. You’re the Winter Soldier, right?”

No, he’s the _other_ feline with a shiny metal arm and magnificent spots, sweating away behind an armored muzzle. Out loud, Bucky answers, “Yes, sir.”

Bucky is so annoyed by this human (who didn’t even bother to introduce himself) that he hates everything from his tacky gold jewelry to the terrible choice he made to wear a turtleneck under his blazer. At least the questions are predictable enough that Bucky can keep one eye on the crowd at the same time as reciting his practiced answers.

The words are meaningless by now anyway, more like callback signals than anything else: The President’s efforts to develop programmatic outreach to ex-SCFs is _sincere_ , _humbling_. Bucky is confident that the Winter Soldier program will be long _lasting_ , _impactful_. The humanoid feline community as a whole will be _empowered_ , and _enriched_ by this generous recognition of their contributions. Bucky hopes he sounds convincing as he lies, and lies, and lies.

This must be one of the reporters that Steve told him about, that receive the pre-briefing ahead of time and wouldn’t deviate from the approved script. At the time, Bucky didn’t ask what the point was of that facade, but he thinks it real loud now as the man ends the interview without so much as a thank you, then turns away without looking up from his phone. Bucky doesn’t want to be caught glaring, so he runs his tail through his own fist to rub away the sensation of the stranger’s hand still pressed in his fur.

At least that idiot hadn’t asked why Bucky was alone. It’s hot in this crowd, he’s half blinded by the muzzle and couldn’t come up with an excuse at that moment if his life depended on it. He isn’t sure how long Steve planned to take, considering the punk had already gone a little off script, but all Bucky can focus on now is finding Major Wilson before Steve tracks him down with Here Kitty.

As it turns out, Major Wilson is the one who finds him.

No sooner had Bucky split away from the humans crowding around the bar, than an older woman with shocking red hair practically pounced on him.

“Bucky, dear!” She exclaimed, boldly taking up his left arm before she practically dragged him into her company. She was wearing a pale pink dress that reminded Bucky of cotton candy stuffed in a plastic bag, and a pearl necklace looped around her skinny throat so many times the beads clattered across her narrow chest as she moved. He couldn’t quite place her face.

“Finally,” the woman practically sang, patting Bucky’s arm when they came to a stop in front of a group of humans standing around the entrance to the 1924 VIP Lounge, chatting and slowly nursing their drinks. “I almost thought I wouldn’t find him, and then there he was.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky said, because he had no idea what else to say to that. Something about her voice was vaguely familiar. She could have been another reporter that he met on the campaign trail, but didn’t really seem the type. Not having the ability to scent anyone was exhausting, so Bucky tuned out of their conversation and started to search the crowd in hopes of spotting the Major.

“Ah, yes,” one man said after another sip of his bubbling champagne. “Magnificent. I can see what you mean now, no question about it.” He had a bright red nose and rimless glasses covered in greasy fingerprints, but there was nothing else remarkable about his face or his clothing. Not military, judging by his bad posture and sagging gut, and not a foreign dignitary, judging by his mid-western accent. He looked Bucky up and down one more time, and gave one of those half-frowns of begrudging approval. It was gross, but Bucky was no stranger to that kind of attention.

“Utterly wasted in the military,” another man cut in, nodding along as if agreeing to an earlier statement. Clearly he wasn’t military or even a politician with that attitude, but Bucky couldn’t imagine what other interest this group could have for him and was starting to get annoyed they kept distracting him from his search.

“Did you breed him for the spots?” Another man chimed in, and suddenly they had Bucky’s attention, full stop. “Or were you going for size and the spots wound up being a bonus?”

That brought the answer home, and Bucky had to hold in the gross feeling of that particular stone getting flipped over in his gut. The woman — Freddie _fucking_ Barnes — patted Bucky’s metal arm again and laughed with the other breeders. “Would you believe he’s a bit of a late bloomer? You could say I aimed for spots and missed!” She laughed. The joke was _hilarious_ , and they laughed too, while Bucky’s tail curled helplessly between his own legs and he sank into the realization.

Freddie Barnes, the woman who licensed his mother and father, who probably licensed his entire _bloodline_ , right there in Washington DC. She wound up going on for some time about him, about his sister, about his mother and his father. She mentioned siblings he never even knew he had, previous litters and cousins and aunts and uncles. Bucky never thought a cat’s family could be meaningful, never knew anyone would keep track, but Freddie Barnes had no problem reciting his illustrious bloodline to those strange men. It’s like the rest of the Barnes cats only ever existed for humans. No one would ever bother to tell Bucky his own pedigree.

At one point, Freddie even took her skeletal fingers and drew out Bucky’s tail, showing off his spots to the other breeders and they all took turns touching it, digging their fingers into the wooly undercoat. It was a hundred times worse than the reporter giving his tail a yank.

“You should see his keeper, he’s such a _dish_ ,” Freddie bragged, with a gross little grin as she waved at the only other woman in the group to take part in her dirty joke. That woman covered her mouth when she laughed, then answered in Japanese that Bucky didn’t bother translating in his head.

“So where is your handsome young Captain, Bucky dear?” Freddie asked him, after the chuckles subsided.

“Bathroom, ma’am,” Bucky lamely admitted, just as incapable of formulating an excuse as before.

How did he not recognize Freddie Barnes? It had been fifteen years since he’d last seen her, but surely he’d know his own breeder by sight? Even without the ability to catch her scent, that hair, those menacing white teeth, and that long body should have triggered something. Instead, he was left completely blindsided, dragged right into a group of humans that looked him over like a particularly tasty piece of meat.

“Well, we’ll have to find him later, won’t we. Now, I have to tell you...” she went on, but she was no longer talking to Bucky after turning to her human companions. “When Bucky was a kitten he was the _ugliest_ thing you’d ever seen. His fur looked like someone rubbed dirt in it!” They laughed again, but she insisted. “You don’t believe me? I have photos!”

It didn’t take long for Bucky to entirely lose the ability to understand their words, though he had hardly been expected to play an active role in their little conversation. Instead he focused on keeping his feet firmly planted on the floor, staring into the red check pattern on the lush carpet. If they stayed out on the promenade long enough, Steve would eventually come looking for him and would drag him from the clutches of one of the wealthiest women in New York.

Determined to thwart any effort to escape and as if she heard his thoughts, Freddie suggested they head inside, past the guard waiting placidly in front of the sign for the 1924 VIP Lounge. It was a large, comfortable bar, only available for select guests, and even Lorraine had told Bucky it was off limits to cats. What was the chance Steve would find him in there?

What the fuck was he supposed to do?

Bucky managed to plant his feet, but all Freddie had to do was glance his way and he immediately yielded. Not disobeying Madam Barnes was one of Bucky’s earliest lessons, and despite decades of military discipline, never managed to unlearn.

“Come on! We’ll take a seat inside,” Freddie instructed him, rather than asking. “You seem a little stressed out.”

“I do, ma’am?” Bucky asked, after swallowing a few times to stall for time. He stopped again, resisting the pull of that open lounge door, and that time she stopped with him.

“Oh please,” she huffed, planting one hand on her hip while the other stayed fused to his metal arm like it’d been welded there, searing hot and impossible to chip away. “I can recognize when one of my own babies is a little anxious. Are they feeding you well? Not a bunch of human leftovers, I hope.”

That was a little too on the nose, and Bucky had enough. His heart pounded so hard in his chest he could feel his pulse in his throat. He had his orders, to connect with the Wakanda Movement, to stand on that stage with the President of the United States, and to protect his precious human. He didn’t have time to process an encounter with his breeder, didn’t have the strength to navigate the crowds and the reporters and the traps left for him by every human in the building.

Bucky gasped, the muzzle apparently expanded with the heat in the room, swelling around his throat like a hot wet noose. He couldn’t think anymore and soon enough wouldn’t be able to breathe either. He needed to find Steve — or no, it wasn’t Steve he was searching for. Who, then? Bucky could feel the blaze of panic along his scruff, so disoriented he couldn’t even remember that much.

“Bucky?”

_Sam!_

Freddie stops short, just inside the lounge. She turns in surprise, making a little ‘o’ with her over-painted mouth, and releases Bucky’s arm. Bucky immediately backs away from her, then ducks behind Major Wilson’s personal space. Wilson pulls his hands out of his pockets, a little confused how he wound up between Bucky and his company.

“You okay, man?”

“Captain Rogers isn’t going to ask for help,” Bucky blurts out. “We should find him.”

Awkward as it sounds, Wilson’s bewildered expression immediately shifts to something more understanding, and he gives Bucky a nod. “Excuse me ma’am,” Wilson says, turning on his charming grin with the flick of a switch. “I need to borrow Bucky for a moment.”

“Well, now I don’t think so,” Freddie huffs, and crooks her finger at Bucky. “Come on, darling. I wasn’t finished with you.”

 _You were finished with me when I was six years old,_ Bucky thinks. _With me and Becca both._

“Sorry,” Wilson says, still smiling but not sounding sorry at all, and puts one hand up to block any suggestion that Bucky should answer her summons. “But you are.”

Freddie laughs. “Young man, I hardly think you know who you’re—”

“ _Major_ ,” he tersely corrects her, and what do you know, it feels a hell of a lot better when Wilson’s not directing that disapproval at Bucky for a change. “And who I'm dealing with is someone who is interfering with matters of national security. Now, I'm taking the Winter Soldier with me, unless your conversation is more important than the safety of our nation. Because if so I'd be happy to wait.”

“Well, _fine_ ,” Freddie says, patting the air in front of her as if generously conceding something of her own for the greater good, but only because she’s losing interest. “If it’s official business and all. Bring him back by before this shindig kicks off, will you?” Happy enough to have issued her orders to a high ranking military officer, Freddie rejoins her companions in the lounge, ‘her baby’ already half forgotten.

Wilson leads him back up the stairs, keeping to Bucky’s left. Halfway up, Bucky realizes it’s exactly the formation he would have guided Steve into, shielding him from the chaotic flow of traffic on the stairs by placing himself on one side and the bannister to the other. It’s a strange feeling to have a human other than Steve protecting him for a change. The realization settles the fur on his scruff and he’s reminded that Sam Wilson is the man that Steve probably trusts more than anyone.

“Thank you, sir,” he finally mutters, although he’s not sure if his voice makes it past the muzzle.

“I’m not going to ask who that was,” Wilson explains. “But I’ve never seen you so happy to see me, so I made an educated guess she wasn’t a friendly.”

“No, sir,” Bucky agrees. He’ll have to figure out how he feels about seeing Freddie Barnes — seeing her, but not _recognizing_ her — when he gets a moment to himself. “Definitely not a friendly.”

“So what kind of trouble did our boy get himself into this time?” Wilson asks, once they tuck into one of the arched doorways leading into the main auditorium. The doors are still shut, seating not available for another twenty minutes while the reception continues.

 _Our boy?_ This is the second time Wilson has referred to Steve so possessively. Bucky isn’t sure he likes the sound of that, but he moves on without getting territorial. “I did what you said. I found the infection, and drew it out of him. Some kind of parasite. It basically dissolved once it was out of him, and the- the _corruption_ was gone.”

“Gone?” Wilson repeats, then nods, making a mental note for later. “Okay. Go on.”

“When we were interviewed for some magazine, the editor asked Steve- Captain Rogers about his father’s involvement in the ESPO pipeline. Rogers got confused, thought the reporter was asking about _Pierce_.” Bucky stops there, watches Wilson absorb the details. “After a few minutes, he hadn’t even remembered she asked about General Rogers at all.”

Wilson presses his lips together as he thinks, then shakes his head, not making the connection. “And you think that means he’s still, what? Corrupted?”

Bucky shakes his head, trying to keep his ears from drooping. “No, he’s not. I would know if he was. It’s just, after I pulled that thing out of him, he actually admitted things got mixed up when he thought about General Rogers. He said that it felt like some invisible hand would make him think about Pierce instead.”

“It’s good he was able to admit it.” Wilson thinks it over, going quiet as he considers the implications. “When did he tell you this?”

“This morning, when we were- ” _In bed together,_ is what Bucky was going to say but stops just short of that damning confession. What is it about Major Wilson that makes people want to spill their guts? It’s not like Wilson doesn’t already know, but Bucky hasn’t exactly said it out loud before. _Ever._

“Yeah, alright,” Wilson says, rescuing him from more awkward silence with a wave of his hand, because he doesn’t really want to know either. “So you’re saying there’s something left over?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, nodding as much as his muzzle would allow. “I don’t know what. Please watch his back, sir?” Wilson shoots Bucky a surprised look, and Bucky nods his head because yes, okay, maybe they can share protection of ‘their boy’ this one time. “In case something happens to me.”

Wilson looks upwards, like he’s begging for grace, but eventually his chin falls back down and he looks at Bucky in the eye, like an equal. It’s a little unsettling at first, but then he smiles. “You realize this means he owes me six now, right?”

“I figured it was more like a dozen,” Bucky deadpans, and Wilson bursts out laughing.

* * *

Steve heads back upstairs, pulls out his phone with a rising sense of panic that makes his pulse kick and his hands tremble when he launches Here Kitty. He knows this is part of the plan, he knows Bucky might be recruited right then and there by the Wakanda Movement, but he isn’t ready to completely lose track of his cat just yet, not when he only now got him back, not when he knows something is wrong.

The bathrooms had a long line, even just to use the sink, so he wasn’t too surprised that Bucky was long gone by the time he finally got out. He spotted Colonel Rhodes and Dr. Cho near the entrance, chatted briefly with Pepper Potts who told him Tony Stark was around ‘somewhere’ in a tone that said she had no hope of tracking him down any time soon. Captain, or rather, _Agent_ Ward seemed to have finally emerged from wherever he’d been hiding, but after Steve spotted him across the room an editor from Japan’s Yomiuri Shimbun spoke to him in Japanese and Steve had to think fast in order to translate the question. It was just as well, because Steve couldn’t think of someone he’d want to see less.

Steve was in the middle of an interview with yet another reporter, feeding her line after line that he and a team of the Joint Chiefs painstakingly prepared in advance, and almost didn’t notice the crowd parting for Natasha Romanoff.

She was wearing a dress the color of a blazing sunset, with a back that plunged down to her tailbone, crossed with delicate gold chains laced up to her shoulders. Her red hair was cut in a curling bob, adorned with a glittering headband. She looked like some smoky voiced lounge singer of another era, confidently aware that no matter where she went, she would be the center of attention. Steve watched her ignore all the turned heads, watched her ignore him just the same, not even taking the opportunity to tease him about his own ridiculous formal wear.

“Isn’t there someone else you should be watching?” She muttered so quietly he nearly missed her warning. Steve’s heart leapt into his throat and Natasha moved on without so much as a backward glance.

_Bucky._

The fashionably late crowd has finally started to filter in, the reception growing to a noisy swell of glitz and laughter and ostentatious shows of wealth while the main show opening creeps closer. Steve practically has to swim against the tide of guests lined up at the bar, bunched up around the bottom of the stairs, stopped at every landing.

Expensive drinks continue to be freely poured, the horderves make too few rounds, and everyone is loud, laughing, enjoying themselves. It’s obnoxious, distracting, and a sense of danger continues to squirm in Steve’s guts as he scans feline after feline for Bucky’s bright collar. It’s a party, a _gala_ , that’s what this whole thing is for, but all Steve can manage are a few rushed greetings and quick excuses to the folks who try to grab his attention.

Steve finally catches a ping on Here Kitty, but just as he gets to the top of the stairs he hears a familiar laugh break through the din around him.

_Sam!_

If anyone can help him track down Bucky, it’s someone who volunteers with search and rescue on the weekends. Steve dodges a feline waiter as the cat angles a tray of half empty glasses away from the crowd, nods hello to the Secretary of State, and walks around a dense group of folks he recognizes (though has no clue from where) before he finally makes his way over to Sam. He stops short when he finds Sam speaking with the brat himself.

Bucky’s eyes go wide with surprise when he catches sight of Steve, but his ears happily perk up so that’s something. Everything is fine, according to the easy swish of his tail, and the alarm bells rattling around inside Steve’s head go a little bit quieter.

“Captain Rogers,” Bucky greets, and Sam abruptly turns around.

“There he is!” Sam gives Steve’s shoulder an easy nudge with the top of his fist. “Thought you mighta been eaten alive by those reporters by now.”

Sam’s bright smile is always a relief to see, but when Steve catches the way Bucky’s gaze lingers on his boots he narrows his eyes at them both.

“Did you, now?” Steve has never seen a guiltier looking pair of soldiers in his entire life. “I feel like this is something I’m going to learn more about, later.”

“Oh, you will,” Sam promises, shaking his head. “Much later.”

Before Steve can parse Sam’s cryptic response, the house lights flash twice, signalling the crowd to find their seats. The ceremony is about to start, and Steve needs to get back stage so that he can present the medal itself to the President.

Sam nods, this time giving Steve a more genuine smile. “Showtime, Cap. Don’t worry, we’ve got your back.”

* * *

There’s a small door under one of the promenade’s many archways that leads backstage. It’s a surprise treat that it’s one in the same that Brock is guarding, and Bucky relishes the moment he gets to turn his nose up as he passes the other cat while Brock is forced to open the door for them. Being muzzled might be a good thing in this one instance, because if he scented that fucking traitor he might not be able to keep his claws in. He may have moved on from hating Brock outright, but no cat could acknowledge another after breaking faith. It’s not like Bucky would forget that Brock told Jasper Sitwell everything after his visit to the Secret Service field office. For all Bucky knows, that might be the reason that Pierce targeted Steve in the first place.

Bucky doesn’t bother to even acknowledge Brock’s presence with a sneer, but Steve nearly ruins it by being polite as ever, offering the older cat a nod after greeting Agent Sitwell and Brock looks awful smug for it. _Damn it,_ but he hates that fucking tom. Bucky takes a breath and focuses instead on Lieutenant Lorraine, who meets them just inside the hall, bouncing on the tip of her toes with her tablet clutched to her chest.

“POTUS is waiting stage left,” she explains quickly, as they fall into step behind her. This part of the theater isn’t meant for the public, so there’s no gold sculptures or plush red carpets, just a row of naked lightbulbs overhead and a cement floor that clicks under their shoes as they walk down the long brick hallway with no doors. “Just like rehearsals. You’ll enter stage right, past the honor guard. You’re up after General Rogers, Chamberlain Chen, and Chancellor Brasov.”

Steve glances at Bucky, sharing a knowing smile. They went over this a hundred times in rehearsals earlier that morning and the day before, but Lorraine can’t be stopped. She isn’t the only one responsible for this event, just for Steve and Bucky’s part in it, and that’s more than enough to make the freshly minted lieutenant nervous.

The hallway dips low then climbs back up, opens into a wider space with dressing rooms on each side. Bucky smiles patiently back as Lorraine continues rattling through the entire ceremony by memory, step by step, from how many strides they are to take across the dais, to what hand Steve should hand the medal over with, but doesn’t really share Steve’s levity. How could he? Steve’s own father will be on stage at the same time as Pierce, those two being the most dangerous men in the world, as far as Bucky’s concerned.

Really, Steve should be a hell of a lot more nervous about the whole thing, not waiting indulgently as Lorraine brushes the edges of his bright red lapels and nudges his bow tie from being straight to _perfectly_ straight. It hurts to think he’s so clueless about being in so much danger. In typical Steve Rogers fashion, the human is probably only worried about Bucky and his mission with the Wakanda Movement. It seems like that’s a far off priority, and it’s already gone sideways since Bucky spent the entire reception hunting down Major Wilson and not leaving himself open to be approached by other cats.

Whatever. If they didn’t want him then they didn’t want him.

“It’s been an honor, sir,” Lorraine says, and snaps off a tidy salute. It’s not necessary, not within standard decorum, but she’s tearing up and Steve straightens his back and gives a crisp salute in return. It’s a gesture of respect, and also punctuates Lorraine’s efforts as she finally is able to break off and leave them there behind a black partition, waiting for their cue to go on stage.

They’ve made it, despite everything.

“Don’t know why she was so nervous,” Steve whispers, under the sound of the rising overture and the Chairman of the Norwegian Nobel Committee welcomes everyone over the house mic. “She’s not the one going up there, in front of all those people.”

“She’s _your_ assistant,” Bucky flatly reminds him. “I’d be nervous too, knowing you.”

Steve makes a strangled grunt, snapping a look of mock betrayal Bucky’s way before the house lights suddenly flare on the stage before them. The sound of applause explodes through the auditorium, momentarily deafening Bucky as effectively as a flashbang grenade.

Steve is supposed to be the last one to step onto the dais, before Pierce himself. They watch patiently as Chamberlain Chen, representing the interests of the China’s Qing Dynasty, walks stiffly on stage, followed by Chancellor Brasov, chief diplomat of Russia’s recently elected President Nikolaevna, and finally General Joseph Rogers, who helped protect the interests of all three nations as they worked towards open trade agreements, climbs the short stairs to join them.

To have these three dignitaries in one place, brought together under the flag of the United States, is something most people in attendance would have never have thought possible, but as General Joseph Rogers walks up behind them any pride Bucky may have felt for playing some small role as an American citizen is dashed by what he knows of America’s own leaders.

 _Hypocrites_ , Bucky thinks, as General Rogers bows to both stoic officials, one after the other, with a proud smile on his face. _Monsters_.

“I love you,” Steve suddenly whispers and Bucky can’t stand it anymore.

“Don’t go.”

Steve flinches, and shoots him a brief glance before he looks back out to the stage. “Are you kidding?” He whispers. “Now? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky whispers harshly. “Something.”

Steve steps forward, expecting his cue any moment. “Not good enough, Buck,” he says, still whispering in a rush. “What is it? Panther? Zola?”

“No,” Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t know exactly what’s wrong, he just has that feeling, that certainty that none of this is going to go the way they hope. It’s something he recognizes from being in combat, something that knots up his blood. Too many impossible coincidences, too many pieces out of place. There’s not one single thing he can point to, but everything at once screams danger. “It’s just. _Something_.”

“Don’t worry, Buck,” Steve sighs, and steps out from behind the curtain anyway. “What could go wrong with you beside me?”

* * *

Steve knows Bucky’s nervous in his own way, and not just because he’s suffering from cold feet. He can hardly blame the hunting cat from being a bit skittish since neither of them are all that experienced running covert ops. He and the rest of his unit weren’t dubbed the ‘Howling Commandos’ because infantry commanders considered them subtle.

Still Bucky wouldn’t have asked him to go AWOL at the last minute if he didn’t have a good reason, and Steve still hasn’t forgotten Natasha’s warning. He can’t shake how he felt after making eye contact with Agent Ward, either. Brief as it was, Ward is one of the only people he’s seen tonight that looked out of place, though Steve can’t put his finger on any particular reason why.

Something is definitely wrong, but there isn’t anything Steve can do about it now.

Steve considers himself warned as he steps out onto the stage, soldier’s instincts on high alert. Aside from the cat’s quiet, miserable chuff, Bucky doesn’t argue. Instead, he falls into lockstep behind Steve without another word. The formation isn’t exactly natural for the hunter, who is much more used to protectively lead, but it’s what they rehearsed for this event. If one of them was going to disappoint Lieutenant Lorraine it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Bucky.

Steve has never done well in a spotlight, and his armpits already start to prickle with nervous sweat as he follows his carefully plotted march across the bright stage. He’s glad that his body apparently knows what to do, even though his mind all but blanks as he steps up to the dais, salutes his own father without hesitation, then stands at attention to the left of the podium. Bucky posts himself behind Steve and a little to the left, directly beside General Rogers. Steve hopes his father remains on his best behavior, despite the clear scent of champaign that Steve picks up.

Then just like that, President Pierce appears from the opposite side of the stage, and quickly makes his way onto the dais. He greets the Chamberlain, the Chancellor, then salutes General Rogers. His salute doesn’t extend to Steve, because Steve is holding the heavy, velvet flocked box carrying the solid gold medal itself, and another containing the diploma. Somewhere along the line, the Chairman of the Norwegian Nobel Committee handed it to him, then nods meaningfully as Pierce settles behind the podium.

Steve swallows, finding the muscles in his throat had gone too stiff to make it past his own tuxedo collar. Had his bow tie been knotted this tightly all evening? It practically burns against his throat as he stands stalk still, listening to Pierce’s words as he starts chewing his way through his lecture.

Stuck standing at attention, Steve can hardly take the opportunity to look around, but there’s not much he can make out under the blinding spotlights mounted to the balcony. The audience is nothing more than a glittery mass below the stage, a few shining faces in the front row of banquet tables. One actually looks an awful lot like Sam’s, and Steve feels an iota of confidence return.

Finally, the audience applauds, and Steve makes an automatic about-ninety pivot, facing the President with the boxes in hand. This is it. Pierce takes the short stack of boxes, places them on the podium, then turns back to Steve with the salute he’d been waiting for. Steve returns it, still trying to force down that swallow. He feels lightheaded and maybe a little bit submerged, like water has come up over his ears, while his pulse painfully hammers against the pain on the side of his throat.

“Thank you, son,” Pierce says away from the microphone, just under his breath, and pats Steve’s shoulder. Steve thinks he catches the President’s eyes narrow in concern, or maybe he’s just squinting in the bright lights as he holds Steve’s shoulder for one beat too long before he releases it. “At ease.”

Steve continues to hold his breath as he takes a single step back, now in line with Bucky and his own actual father. The man has never exactly been a comforting presence but somehow, seeing him there beside Bucky, Steve feels a sudden sense of relief. Maybe Joseph Rogers will never be what Steve fantasized in Pierce, will never offer Steve that role model to proudly follow, but flawed as he is, the man he knows is _real_. Steve tries not to glare at the back of Pierce’s head, that creature that twisted what Steve had needed so badly from the General into some kind of sick worship of this _monster_.

“I wanted to start off tonight with a confession that my advisors definitely did not want me to share,” Pierce begins with a sly little smile, getting the audience to chuckle along with him now that the formal lecture has ended. “Normally, when a Nobel Prize Laureate accepts one of these, they stand alone on stage. They take the time to talk about the achievements that were made towards peace, and all the while they remain the center of that discussion. So my confession is that when I was approached by the Norwegian Nobel Committee my first instinct was to decline, honor as it may be.” He pauses again, grinning sheepishly to the Chairman, who sits a little stiffer in the seat at the end of the dais at the expense of another good natured chuckle.

Steve remains still, watching the President patiently, not buying it for a second. Bucky, on the other hand, seems to have developed a restless fidget that Steve catches out of the corner of his eye. The cat is standing at ease alongside him, hands clasped behind his back with his chest raised high, silent as he is proud.

His ears however, tell a slightly different story, aggressively flattening and opening as the President continues his acceptance speech. It’s not a random twitch either, but a careful and familiar pattern that Bucky uses to communicate using his extremely subtle body language.

“What I’ve come to realize,” Pierce goes on, “is that peace is not an achievement, but a responsibility. However, today we’re celebrating to the commitment of nations to that responsibility, not of one man. That’s why I accept the award, not as Alexander Pierce but as the President of the United States, alongside our partners, our _brothers_ , in China and Russia, who have made such gainful strides towards lasting peace in our time.”

Steve can make out all the blue in Bucky’s eyes, pupils nothing but a hairline slit as the cat gazes directly into the spotlights. Steve can’t follow Bucky’s line of sight into the dazzling fluorescence, and can’t make out what Bucky might be watching, but there’s something familiar about the patterns rippling through Bucky’s tail for Steve to squint into them, just in case. Bucky’s predatory eyesight must be able to isolate the powerful spotlights from whatever he sees beyond them, and it must be another cat if he’s so actively talking with his-

Steve’s memory launches him back in time and across an ocean to Dzhaore. Years ago, long before The Hole and Operation Lemurian Star and Sakhalin, the Howlies had been on a mission on mainland Russia that nearly went sideways. Bucky signaled to the feline sniper spotter, alerting the other cat to an RNS trap with what seemed like telepathy at the time. An agent had been patiently waiting for the unit, watching the joint Japanese and American force collect in an otherwise sparse market square with his hand on a remote trigger. Fifty pounds of unexploded ordinance had been recovered after their sniper took the agent out.

It was the first time Steve experienced for himself how sophisticated feline body language actually was, proving wrong years of training that insisted SCFs were timid, simple creatures kept around for brute force. It was a defining moment in Steve’s career as a military leader, not just because it was the first time Bucky had saved his life, but because it changed his opinion of humanoid felines forever after. Steve blinks away from the lights, eyes burning, as he watches almost the exact same body language play out in Bucky’s feline features.

President Pierce swings his arm out wide, to include the audience in his grand declarations as he continues. “The United States is not a nation of one but of many, and I act merely as the vessel of that many, to accept this award on behalf of a democracy that strives for peace the world over.”

There’s a _sniper_ here, Steve coolly realizes. There’s a sniper in the balcony, hiding behind the lights, and not only is Bucky not alerting anyone, he’s actually directing it where to shoot. He’s acting as a spotter, like the military had trained him to be all those years ago, but on behalf of god knows what enemy.

Why? Is this part of his mission? Had the cat made contact with the Wakanda Movement and failed to report in when they reconnected? If that were the case, then SHIELD would know, and there’s no way they’d allow a sniper to operate freely around POTUS regardless of their mission parameters. Unless of course, Pierce already knows about it.

Unless of course, Pierce is _counting_ on it.

What does it say of a race of people willing to assassinate the President of the United States, as he stands shoulder to shoulder with the world’s most important diplomats, delivering a message of peace while being honored for his efforts to unite the world? The whole population would turn against the Wakanda Movement if that happened and Steve’s very own hunter hates the President enough to walk right into that trap.

Bucky’s ears snap back, not to communicate, but to protect his sensitive hearing from the inevitable shot.

“Gun!” Steve screams, and throws his full weight into the President, knocking the man down below the podium.

A line of fire cuts through his ribs and Steve hits the floor with a grunt. He’s perfectly lucid but for some reason can’t get back up again, his body locked up and aching with cold, like his muscles have turned to ice.

The President is dragged out from under him just as another shot rings out, while Steve helplessly watches the teleprompter topple to the floor and shatter. He can hear the panic as soon as it strikes, screams erupting like a rising tide, the thunder of heavy boots stomping across the soft, blue dais as the other dignitaries are trundled off by screaming security details.

When the pain comes, it’s worse than what Steve expects, so much so that he can’t even bring himself to scream and everything starts going blurry around the edges.

Where is Bucky going? He needs him! Now, more than ever!

Somewhere, his father starts yelling at him, like he always does, because Steve can never do anything right.

* * *

Brock was spotted again in this chapter, and he's not done yet! Incredible art by [Hiemallily](https://hiemallily.tumblr.com/post/168124715292/my-favorite-match-not-made-in-heaven)! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays everyone!!! This has been a chaotic year for me. Two new jobs, several work trips that took me all over the world, and exciting new friendships from this amazing fandom. Thank you to each and every reader of this fic! Even if you've never left kudos/comments, it's been an incredible experience to share this story with everyone. See you in the New Year!


	29. The Wrath of Wakanda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

As soon as Bucky takes up position next to General Rogers, he feels his scruff stand on end.

It’s not just from that sick feeling of loss after failing to convince Steve to retreat from this doomed mission, and it’s not General Rogers either, who exhales sharply through his nose when Bucky’s shoulder comes within inches of brushing his own. It must really rankle the old goat to be standing side-by-side with the cat he failed to make disappear only five years ago, but Steve’s father quickly becomes the last thing on Bucky’s mind as the sense of unease turns to dread.

Bucky clenches his jaw, pressing his fangs into his bottom lip until he can really feel it as President Pierce walks onto the dais. The sickening sensation goes rancid, like toxic waste boiling off of a swamp, and Bucky’s left arm audibly clicks as he forces himself to stay still. He casts his gaze over the crowd, just to distract himself from the pull towards the President, and finds that he’s not alone. Just about every feline ear in the audience is flattened back, feline eyes huge and round, posture radiating hostility or fear or a mix of the two. Some keepers notice the twitching tails and low frequency rumbles coming from their collared pets but most are reverently watching the stage as the President of the United States waves magnanimously, oblivious.

The only cats that don’t seem bothered are the the Secret Service SCFs, and the handful of males wearing muzzles. Bucky glances quickly around the tops of the aisles, hoping to spot his own cadets. They all must have noticed by now that something is wrong, the cats in the audience are communicated it loudly enough with their body language, and the cadets might be able to at least sound the alarm. When he can’t find them on the orchestra or mezzanine levels he looks up, towards the balcony. That’s when he catches sight of Brooklyn and Pietro, standing at attention in one of the box seats, high above the audience.

What the fuck are they doing there if they were stationed on front doors? Where are their muzzles? Bucky lets his eyes adjust in the glare of the stage lights, which are mounted on the broad, solid wall of the balcony’s high ledge, scanning for signs of trouble. He manages to force his eyes to focus beyond the lights and barely makes out a black shape, tucked against the balcony ledge, like a single, dark tooth biting into a golden lip.

Bucky’s heart skips when he sees light slice across the polished muzzle of a .22 rifle.

Just like that the pieces fall into place, the gut feeling forcing the jagged edges together to form the complete picture. Mistakenly, Black Panther always thought Steve was the enemy, but then SHIELD set Bucky down the path to not be trusted either, forcing those claws into his fingers like the Hydra-loyal felines in Russia. Everything SHIELD put into motion has lead up to this moment, with Bucky standing on stage beside whom he himself has already admitted are the most dangerous men in the world, as if they were his allies.

Does Black Panther know how President Pierce uses those parasites to dominate the other humans? Does SHIELD? Bucky realizes with a jolt that President Pierce himself must not actually be human at all. Regardless of what Black Panther thinks of Bucky or Steve, that is still their common enemy. Maybe if Panther shoots the President, everyone would see the twisted jumble of slithering worms hiding beneath that placid exterior. Maybe, Panther would even kill him.

All Panther needs to see is that both Steve and Bucky are his allies, that they are on the same side. It’s difficult without his full range of motion, standing stoic on stage among their enemies, unwilling to give himself away by wrapping his tail possessively around his human. Instead, he angles his ears dangerously back, glaring at the president making him the clear target. If Black Panther needs any other message, let it be Bucky clear and open signal that he shout take his shot.

Pierce finally finishes rattling through his bullshit lecture, takes up the packages with his meaningless award from Steve’s gloved hands, and Bucky tears his eyes away from Panther for a split second when Pierce puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder. From his position, he can see the President’s spine go stiff and can already feel the roar building in his throat if that thing so much as takes one more step towards Steve.

“Don’t you dare,” General Rogers warns him through clenched teeth. Bucky flicks his eyes down to his extended claws, and tightens his metal hand into a fist to hide them. General Rogers is right for once, it wouldn’t be worth it if Bucky attacked the president now, when they are so close to an end of all this. Steve finally pivots to stand at Bucky’s right side, and Bucky lets himself relax. With Steve safely out of the way, Panther has a clear shot. Bucky raises his chin and gives an encouraging little roll with his tail.

The humans would never know that Bucky helped; the other cats would never tell them. He watches the barrel of that rifle make minute adjustments, can see a black, swaying tail twitching incrementally from side to side as Panther takes aim. There’s no way the humans would be able to see him, posted between those glaring lights, but Bucky continues to direct him towards Pierce, as the man blathers on about how they will now see peace in their time.

 _Monster_ , Bucky thinks, and closes his ears when Panther’s dark shape stills for the shot. _Die._

“Gun!” Steve screams, and reality seems to flip over.

Steve isn’t supposed to have seen the sniper. Steve isn’t supposed to have reacted to the shot, least of all to protect Alexander Pierce from what he deserves. Just as Wilson predicted, Steve dives over that cliff and the crack of bone and hollow thud of a bullet piercing his precious body echoes in Bucky’s standing ears. He can do nothing but watch.

“No…” General Rogers gasps, a single syllable of helpless shock that Bucky feels in equal measure, all the way to his core.

It takes so long for Steve to hit the floor, like he had been interrupted part way through standing up, knees folding in a weird stutter as all that muscle fails to hold. Inversely, the Secret Service descends in the blink of an eye, and Pierce is already gone by the time Bucky leaps to Steve’s side.

Bucky’s heart hammers against his chest as he takes stock: Steve is alive. Steve is breathing. Steve’s eyelashes flutter as his efforts to remain conscious waver like a candle flame. People are screaming, humans in a panic and cats charging towards the stage.

Bucky flattens against the blue carpet when another shot crashes into the podium, rocking the entire dais, but General Rogers doesn’t seem to notice that they are still under fire.

“No, no, no!” Rogers whines, his knees hitting the floor beside Steve before his hands scramble across Steve’s chest. The dark red stain continues to flood the perfect white cotton of Steve’s tux. “My boy!”

Another shot explodes over the sounds of screams, and a Secret Service agent — not Sitwell, the only one Bucky happens to know by name — collapses in front of the dais. Apparently, Black Panther isn’t through with them, and Bucky sees why after he tucks in close to keep cover behind the podium while the frightened human guests bolt. He watches them scramble over velvet chairs, upend tables, and crash through the narrow doors to escape, while Secret Service agents and SCFs alike strike like black lightning within the glitzy gowns and brushed suits, cutting down the feline attendees that surge forward in their suicidal mission.

Why are they still fighting? The President is long gone, but felines continue to yeowl in fury, leaping clear from table to table, tails thrashing as they are drawn with an elemental power in sparkling collars and shining coats. It must be Panther’s cats, or maybe even the full madness of their reaction to Pierce had been unleashed when their human keepers fled. The Secret Service can’t do much against them, but SCFs quickly leap into the fray. Unmuzzled, unhampered by restraint they’d normally have to show towards humans, and armed to the teeth with knives, the civilian felines wouldn’t have stood a chance against the SCFs without Panther’s sniper fire. SCFs are clipped by successive shots, dragged to the floor in a flurry of snarls and flashing teeth, outnumbered but hardly out matched. Very few humans are left, offering their SCFs support, but they are too slow to do much in the chaotic feline battle.

Bucky’s never seen anything like it.

Steve groans out a few, unintelligible words, and General Rogers shouts at him to hold still, even though Steve doesn’t look like he could move an inch even if he wanted to. There’s so much chaos, so much panic that the air is thick with it, like a haze. It’s inside Bucky too, trying to crawl out from some place deep in his gut, but Bucky keeps it trapped there. He’s a soldier, and he has a job to do, and right now he can’t do it while all three of them are pinned down.

Shots fire again, this time from the Secret Service themselves towards the balcony, but none of their blind aiming finds a mark and one goes down immediately from Panther’s sniper shot. Bucky hears Private Lorraine cry out, and catches sight of her just as an EMT with her pulls her back behind cover backstage and more gunshots pepper the stage.

That _fucker_. If Panther doesn’t stop shooting no one will be able to help them and Steve will bleed out, right in front of his eyes. Had panther been aiming for Steve all along? Bucky remembers what the other cat had said to him the night he invaded Stark Tower, and attacked him in his own room. It was Steve he had blamed then, even though at the time Steve had nothing to do with —

Another shot nearly takes the General’s head off, and Bucky grabs the other human by his bowtie to pull him in, getting the stiff older man entirely behind the podium. It’s bulletproof and General Rogers needs to live long enough to get Steve the help he needs.

“Stay down!” Bucky snaps, and Rogers surprisingly does as he’s ordered, too distracted with pressing his hands into Steve’s wound to care who issued them. Bucky is thankful for that, because if he even got a hint that this man couldn't handle the responsibility that Bucky is about to give him he wouldn’t have the courage to do what he knows he must. “Help Steve. I’m going to take out that sniper.”

Another shot goes wide, but is quickly followed by a second that strikes a Secret Service agent in the audience and a feline Bucky doesn’t recognize lands on all fours just below the dais. The cat is frantic, growling with all of his sharp teeth bared, tail full with fear and flicking dangerously. General Rogers takes a hurried breath, before he shouts, “Go!”

Bucky _goes_.

The cat on stage is Bucky’s first target. He’s wearing a dinner coat and a silver collar, something expensive like a fine piece of jewelry. His ears are sleek and pointed, glossy black like his hair, and he makes a foolish mistake of attacking Bucky as soon as Bucky launches off the dais. Bucky never knew what it was like to fight with thoroughbreds, had only ever known other cats in the military or on the streets. This soft, angry feline is so slow and surprised to find himself in a real fight that Bucky almost feels bad when he easily rolls him over, like a kitten. Then he kicks the other cat hard enough to throw him clear off the stage, over the orchestra pit, and back into the chaos of the audience below. Another shot sends up a geyser of splinters from the stage, and Bucky is off again.

It takes one impossibly high standing leap to clear the distance from the stage to the closest box seat, at least thirty feet directly up. Bucky barely touches down on the box’s low wall before he springs to the next one, and the next, leaping from narrow ledge to narrow ledge, gaining altitude as he crosses the length of the auditorium mostly in mid-air. Bucky looks for Pietro and Brooklyn along the way, but they are long gone, and he doesn’t have time to worry about what they’re getting up to.

The final jump from the highest box seat to the balcony is too far to clear in one leap, so Bucky mounts the wall in three whole strides, claws catching on the red velvet drape along the way before he pushes himself off and over the gap. He soars across the last stretch with his back facing the ground, then rifles at the last second as Panther’s aim finally catches up to him. He hears the shot, but it goes wide as he drops onto the balcony with light feet, then urges his forward momentum into a somersault, diving as cement explodes from another.

Now that Panther’s attention is on Bucky, the SCFs will tear the enraged civilian cats apart, but the EMTs will also be able to reach Steve. The tradeoff will be worth it, these cats had their chance. Stopping Panther is all that matters now, since his plans and his mission and his life are now officially fucked up beyond all recognition. Bucky slithers behind the cover of folded theater seating, making his way towards his target.

It’s time to end this, Bucky thinks as he leaps over the back of one chair just as another shot rings out, slipping into tighter cover as he closes on Panther’s position. No matter what happens to Bucky, to SHIELD, to Wakanda — it’s Steve that needs protection, because without him there’s no point to any of this. The last time Bucky faced Panther he was thin and weak, at the end of his life as far as he knew, and caught by surprise. Now, he has the added benefit of two _fucking_ arms, and a mission to save Steve’s life.

Bucky strikes, claws out, and Panther drops his weapon. Or rather _her_ weapon.

“Idiot!” Comes the muffled growl behind that familiar mask, black and silver and snarling. “Hydra will kill us all!” The female blocks Bucky’s first strike and kicks into his core, but Bucky spins away from her low attack. She has him cornered against the line of seat in an instant, forcing him back another row. She’s fast, nimble, and Bucky hopes his size and strength is enough to counter that advantage. Her tail is a rope of glistening black fur, ears are sleek black tufts, folded flat against the shining material of the mask. Who is this? And where is the heavy male who attacked Bucky at Stark Tower?

“I am not with Hydra!” Bucky manages to shout, after he blocks another savage blow by curling behind his metal bicep, then lands a solid kick to her chin as he flips back and behind another row, the last one on the balcony.

“Liar!” She shouts, as he bolts down the line on all fours, out of her line of sight, hoping to circle around her as he hops up the seats after where she last saw him. “You protect Rogers, you protect Hydra!”

Bucky stops short, furious at the accusation, then leaps in a sideways spiral to land right behind her. “I protect him because I _love_ him.”

The lady Panther look-a-like must have some training, because her roundhouse kick is as flawless as it is strong, and Bucky hits the steps behind him with a grunt. “You will be Zola’s pet forever, then,” she hisses, stalking up towards him. He has the high ground, but it doesn’t really matter. His next move was to jump clear over her head and drag her down behind him with his heavier weight, but just then a second feline, much larger than the female, joins her from the bottom of the aisle stairs, where she left her rifle.

“Shuri, we must retreat,” Panther — the same one Bucky knows, the one from Stark Tower — says in that odd accented voice of his when he comes to a stop, then goes rigid when he catches sight of Bucky.

“You!” Bucky rages. He doesn’t know why the sight of the more familiar of the two makes him so upset, not when it was clearly this ‘Shuri’ who shot Steve, who kept them pinned down while Lorraine was trying to bring help. Steve...

It was only a single, broken heartbeat of a distraction, Bucky glancing along the path the stage lights cover over the destruction swirling below to see EMTs carrying Steve’s prone form off the stage, but it’s enough. Black Panther is on him in an instant, and worse, the female Shuri joins him.

They fight with perfect synchronicity. As soon as Bucky counters Panther, Shuri is there with the redoubt. As soon as Bucky manages to circle one, the other is there to send him back out front. Bucky’s single set of claws make a promising rake across Shuri’s mask, and Panther cuts through every single layer of Bucky’s body armor with his own. Together they force him to retreat, step after step, level after level, until he’s backed up against the low balcony wall, defending more than he is attacking.

It isn’t fair. Bucky has a super-powered bionic arm, razor sharp claws, and a grudge. Yet here he is, outmatched. Maybe if he had his fangs out he could have done more, since his reaction time is sluggish without the scent of his enemies guiding him through the fight. He gasps for air through the thick filters of his mask, sweating and exhausted by his climb up to the balcony, and his eyes flash quickly from one stalking Panther to the next.

Bucky needs to separate these two, needs to break apart their deadly dance or he’s going to lose. He crashes into the rigging for the stage lights, mounted on the balcony wall, grabs ahold of a support post with his metal hand and tears the heavy rack down between them. Shuri ducks low, but Panther goes high, and finally Bucky has an opening. As Bucky hoped, Panther lands on his hands first, leaving his head in a vulnerable, low position. Bucky lands a kick in the side of his temple, steel-toed boot cracking hard against the mask protecting the Panther’s face.

“T’Challa!” Shuri cries out, scrambling around the twisted metal and sparking electrical of the lighting rig.

Panther skitters side-long from the strike, thrown off balance, but Bucky’s kick does less damage than he hoped. The mask breaks away from the lower half of Panther’s face, and he sees gleaming, fangs in dark skin.

“Enough of this,” Panther says, and lunges forward.

Like before, Bucky tries to counter with his metal arm, but a bolt of lightning surges through him and the heady scent of ozone fills his nostrils. It’s hard to tell exactly what happened to his arm, some electronic pulse that Shuri struck him with sizzling through every connection along his spine, breaking through his implant and flooding the metal appendage with pain he hadn’t even know he could still feel. Bucky’s scream is cut off as Panther follows up the attack with a great lunge, heaving his body weight into Bucky’s off-kilter stance. Bucky stumbles back, exposing his throat, and he’s finished.

Panther’s fangs sink into the soft flesh below Bucky’s muzzle, crushes the delicate bones around his adams apple. It hurts, fucking hell it hurts like he can’t _believe_ , but it’s the sudden lack of oxygen that makes that scrambling panic in Bucky’s gut break free. He thrashes helplessly against Panther, kicks over another tall rack of lighting and wires. A few more inches, and Bucky would have had ahold of the other cat’s arm, could have turned this around, but Panther rolls smoothly over the balcony’s edge, and releases Bucky on the upswing, sending him right over.

Bucky’s right arm shoots out, but his naked fingers only slip for the briefest moment across the surface of the railing, and then he’s airborne. Bucky’s tail works hard to twist his spine around, forcing his shoulders and legs in the proper position to minimize the damage of a too-far fall. It’s no use, his momentum is too great and he watches the mezzanine level sail past his line of sight. Thirty feet, even forty would have been doable, but now Bucky plunges straight towards the orchestra level, sixty feet below the balcony, with nothing but round dinner tables and tipped over chairs to break his fall.

Bucky doesn’t register the impact. He sees his metal arm, unraveling the second it hits the cement floor, bands of gleaming metal shattering like glass past his elbow as everything slows down, then stops altogether.

It takes a long time for him to realize he can breathe.

Bucky doesn’t know if he’s actually frowning, but he wants to, since he also realizes he can’t actually move his legs or his arms. _Arm_. Whatever. Strangely, he still hears thet gunshots as felines continue to rage against felines — SCFs caught up in savage brawls with the civilian cats. They put up a better fight than Bucky gave them credit for. Everything shimmers as Bucky tries to move again, everything he sees is either too far away or too close, and Bucky isn’t so sure what he’s doing there anymore.

Wasn’t there some kind of ceremony he needed to be at?

“Bucky!”

Steve? No, Steve isn’t a cat. Or so small. It’s just Brooklyn, and Bucky feels a hysterical urge to laugh.

“Bucky! Are you okay?”

“No,” Bucky wheezes out, and there, finally, he is able to fully open his eyes. Brooklyn and Pietro are beside him, both on all fours, taking cover behind an upended table. Bucky is lying in someone’s beef wellington. There’s food and broken porcelain everywhere, along with splashes of bright flowers in overturned vases. What a mess.

“Bucky, focus!” Brooklyn shouts, and Bucky wants to frown again because he was focused. Wasn’t he? “Where is Rogers?”

“Steve…” Bucky begs, hoping Steve would be there, safe, warm, gleaming gold like the rest of the world around him.

“Not _Steve_ ,” Brooklyn spits out the human name like a curse.

“Hey! You two! Stop!” Brooklyn and Pietro both freeze, flattening to the ground at the sharp sound of authority crashing down around them.

“Help,” Bucky says through his clenched teeth, as his jaw starts to tighten against the pain that’s only now starting to register. He’s not even sure who he’s asking, but he reaches towards Brooklyn. “Help me. Hurts.”

Brooklyn looks to Pietro, who shrugs and leans over Bucky. For an instant Bucky thinks this is it, he’s safe, they will help him because even though he has no idea whose side any of them are on anymore, they are all felines here. Even more so, this is Brooklyn and Pietro, his pupils, bunkmates, his responsibility, and a little bit like his family, in a way. He feels a tug on his throat, the cold back edge of a knife slide between his skin and his collar, and then the familiar release of pressure from around his neck.

“Freedom for Wakanda.” Brooklyn utters the phrase like it’s a prayer he regrets, and both of them vanish into the forest of ruined dining furniture and shouts, taking Bucky’s license with them.

* * *

There’s no gradual transition, no careful adjustment to light or sound or gravity, no instinctual resistance to wakefulness. Steve is just awake and angry all at once, and throws off his blankets with a frustrated shout. “Bucky!”

“Whoa, Steve! Whoa, there soldier!”

Steve isn’t going to stop. He’s _awake_ , he’s _angry_ , and doesn’t care that he just fell flat on his ass, hauling a clatter of tubes and wires and god knows what else to the floor with him. He’s tangled up in all of it, in blankets, in whatever the hell he’s wearing, and his legs are weak beneath him, the scar on his hip flared up and icy cold all at once. “Fuck!”

“Son!” General Rogers pleads, and the sheer desperation in his father’s tone brings the world sharply back into focus. Steve is in a hospital room. Steve was _shot_.

“Where is he?” Steve wheezes out. Remembering the wound brings back the pain too, and he grips his side where the bullet broke his ribs. Everything hurts.

“Come on, now,” the general says, easing Steve back into the bed. Along the way, the older man uprights whatever instruments and the IVs that Steve knocked over in his valiant attempt to get up. “Easy does it.” He helps Steve get settled, does his best to fluff up the flattened, sweaty pillow and smooth the wrinkles out of the thin, blue blanket all the way down to Steve’s feet. “Doc says you shouldn’t even be awake yet,” the general continues with a chuckle that doesn’t quite reach his watery eyes. Being nurturing didn’t exactly come easy to the old man. “Leave it to my boy to prove ‘em wrong and come up swingin’ like a champ.”

 _His_ boy? Steve glares at his father, the very last person in the world he would have wanted to wake up to. “You’re stalling. Where’s Bucky? Tell me he’s alive.”

The muscle in the general’s jaw pops out for a fraction of a second as his mouth tightens into a thin line. Then he goes back to straightening the corners of the blankets. “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit,” Steve spits.

“Fine. Don’t believe me, kiddo.” The general eases himself stiffly into a chair by the window with a tired sigh. He looks small again, and his uniform is a complete mess. Half of it is on the floor, and he’s down to his shirt sleeves and slacks. Steve briefly wonders how long he’s been in this hospital room.

“How can I believe you,” Steve bitterly asks. “After what you’ve done?”

“Ah,” the general nods, and finally gives Steve an honest answer. “Well, what can I say? This time the cat is worth more alive. I really don’t know where he is, or who he’s with. The CFC cleared out all the animals that survived the attack. The feline waiters, staff, even some SCFs were radicalized into the Wakanda Movement. It’s only been a few hours, but I’d wager your cat got swept up with the rest of them. Either the CFC has him, or Panther’s strays do.”

Steve squints as he tries to remember. The President. The shot. The burning in his ribs and the weight in his limbs, pressing him into the soft blue carpet on the dais. What ‘animals’ could his father be talking about other than the sniper?

“He was with us on stage…” Steve says, exploring the tattered memory even as it starts to slip away like a dream. His father clears his throat, and Steve looks up at the man for explanation.

“Hell of a hunter you have there,” the general says with a shrug. “Practically flew up the wall to take out that sniper so the EMTs could get to you. Didn’t see him after that though. I, uh. I do have people looking for him, if it makes any difference.”

Steve shakes his head. It makes exactly fuck all of a difference as far as Steve’s concerned. General Rogers is the one who got Bucky lost the first time Steve woke up alone in a hospital room, right after Sakhalin. It’s like the worst part of Steve’s history is repeating itself, a nightmare played on loop that he has to relive every five years, just for the hell of it.

And _fuck_ , everything hurts.

“I’m going to call your mother,” the general says, getting to his feet after he accepts that Steve isn’t going to answer. He digs around his coat pockets for his phone, and Steve catches the heavy thunk of a liquor bottle hitting the floor when he drops it back on the chair. Typical. Steve is only surprised he hadn’t smelled it on the man as he loomed over his hospital bed.

His father doesn’t seem to notice his habit was exposed, and turns to Steve with a weak smile. “She was here earlier while I was being debriefed by the Secret Service. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so scared.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, isn’t impressed by his father’s effort. The general clears his throat, looks down at his phone as if he’s trying to decide to actually do what he says or spout more bullshit. Finally, he stiffly turns back to the bed. “As a fellow officer in the United States Army, I want you to know that what you did was damn brave. I’m proud of you, protecting the President like you did.”

Of course he is. He has no idea why Steve really did it, or who he was actually protecting, but then the general surprises Steve when he continues. “As your father, though…” Joseph Rogers pauses to take a breath, then lets it out all at once. “Don’t you _ever_ take a bullet meant for another man again.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve replies automatically, even though he doesn’t mean it, and he’s almost certain his father knows that.

After the general leaves the room, Steve edges upright a little further, just enough to reach the little remote he found floating in the blankets tethered to the hospital bed. He pushes a button and waits patiently as the back rest rises up, just far enough for him to reach his phone on the side table next to him. Now that his nervous system has come back online, his body feels like an old, rusty bear trap, slammed shut with bone-crushing strength. His ribs are in a vice, his mouth is cracked and dry, and that intrusive sting of a catheter hose will never be something Steve gets used to.

Still, he manages to make his thumb work just hard enough to open Here Kitty. He’s not sure what he expected, but when reads the notification that Bucky’s license signal has been lost he feels a flash of anger. Of course it wouldn’t be as easy as using a commercial app to track him, but he had to try. The next thing he does is text Natasha.

_> Bucky is missing._

_> >... _

The three bouncing dots remain on his text screen for a long time, and he wonders what exactly Natasha might be doing. Maybe he should have opened up with the fact that he’s still alive, in the hospital, awaiting the return of his nurse and his parents. He should text Sam while he’s at it, and let his friend know he made it out of surgery. Steve almost puts his phone away, figuring Natasha has bigger problems right now than answering him, when he gets her short reply.

_> >Clint too._

Natasha’s SCF? Steve vaguely recalls the male with the patchy tortoiseshell coloring, notched ears, scruffy from head to toe, vigilantly keeping an eye out at the mall when Steve met with Natasha to ask her about Zola. What hope could Bucky have if Natasha of all people couldn’t find her own hunter?

_> General Rogers says he has people out looking for Bucky. I don’t believe him._

_> >Believe him. I already ran into his people. Give us 24 hours._

This time Steve just drops his phone, too tired to parse that last text. He feels slightly better that Natasha is hunting for Bucky. She was the one who found him in the first place, after all.

* * *

Bucky is awake for a long time before he actually realizes it. Pain prickles along his whole left side, shutting down all his other senses as he swims through the haze. Thinking of Steve is what does it, slams him back into the present as the bed of the CFC wagon jolts over a bump in the road. Bucky can’t help the sound that comes out of him as the molten pain of his left arm pours into his shoulder, a gasp and a cry into the unforgiving stranglehold his muzzle still has on his face. Worse, another cat is standing over him, keeping him pinned as he struggles to adjust against the corrugated steel.

“Don’t move,” comes a gruff order above him and Bucky wants to bite whomever just tried to tell him what to do.

“Fucking traitors!” Another cat hisses, and another deep growl rumbles in the enclosed space that tells Bucky they’re surrounded by Black Panther’s supporters. Idiots. All of them. Especially himself.

Bucky struggles against the shape on top of him, because if they start fighting in a CFC van then they’ll get the tranqs before they’re dumped out into intake. He’s crossed the CFC enough while he was working Karpov’s tenement to know better than that. The cat moves off him and Bucky finally lifts his head from the wagon’s floor. Two benches line the long correctional vehicle with over a dozen cats handcuffed to the rails on either side, ears back and tails lashing. Another dozen are crammed in between, forced to stand. These cats crowd around the front of the van where a tiny steel door separates the prisoner holding area from the drivers up front. Some are dressed as waiters, some in glittering evening clothes, males and females carefully regarding one another as they sway with the motion of the traffic.

Not all of them are paying attention to Bucky and Brock, but the ones that are watch Bucky with narrow eyes and ears folded back, showing their teeth. Bucky himself is up against the bolted back doors, and Brock paces on all fours between himself and the angry captives, striped orange tail snapping dangerously from side to side.

“I said, don’t move,” Brock hisses again, but Bucky couldn’t care less what that son of a bitch has to say.

“Fuck you— _ah_!” Bucky gasps as electricity arcs between the dangling metal at his elbow and surges into his spine, then collapses with a shiver. He’s only a little bit better than where he started, huddled in a ball on the rough flooring, and pulls his tail in around himself as the implant continues to misfire.

Brock spares him a disappointed look and shakes his head. “Ain’t that some gratitude,” he grumbles darkly.

“The fuck are you even doing here?” Bucky snaps back, and notices that his collar is missing as well. “Where’s your human?”

“Dead,” Brock snarls, then nods towards the rest of their company by way of accusation. “These fucking ferals killed him.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide, and he lifts his head enough to see the grim faces outnumbering them. If one of those cats killed a human, they might all be sent to the Red Room. No re-training, no kennels, no laboratory. They were doomed. “Shit.”

“How’s the arm?”

“Delightful,” Bucky says, even as his teeth clench together from the pain. It’s unrelenting, and Bucky coughs when speaking makes it worse. His ribs are like bent and broken knives in his chest, grinding as he tries to catch his breath. How far was that fall? Fifty feet? Sixty? Bucky would be lucky if all he suffered is a ruined prosthetic and a few busted ribs, and his tail curls experimentally while the feeling returns to his legs. The CFC correctional wagon is hot, putrid with too many cats suffering and sweating altogether, angry and ready for a fight. Bucky figures the ones giving him and Brock dirty looks are all Panther’s people, and grimly realizes there’d be no way to work his way into their organization now that he’s attacked their leader.

“We should kill them before we get to the kennel,” one of the cats mutters to another, a pair of big heavy toms in torn coats. Another cat that looks like he’d been sleeping glances up from his seat on the bench, notched ears going back as he catches their conversation. “The humans won’t even notice. That one’s already half dead.”

“I’d like to see you fucking try, cupcakes,” Brock snaps, his scruff standing all the way up as he whips around. A few cats near them shift uncomfortably, but the toms in the back only growl in response. They already proved they were ready to die for this fight, and Bucky is in no shape to take them on. He still doesn’t even know if Steve made it or not.

“There was two of them. Black Panther,” Bucky says, shifting incrementally as Brock continues to guard them both. “A male and a female.”

“We’ll tell our people that when we get outta’ here,” Brock reasons. “I’ll vouch for you if Captain Ward—”

The vehicle comes to a sudden stop, and all the cats inside stumble a step. It’s hard to keep their footing as the vehicle lurches into a park, and Brock snarls out a few more warnings when a pair of females stumble too close. They snap back at him, defensive and angry as the rest, but fall back just as fast. Humans bark orders outside, and soon the back of the wagon is thrown open, light instantly flooding over them and ruining their night vision.

They’ve been taken to a cavernous garage, like a warehouse, with a fleet of CFC vehicles parked along one wall, and only one road leading in or out. At the back of the room are two heavy bay doors, both closed tight. Bucky knows this area well: intake at the Triskelion.

“Out! Everybody out!” A human shouts, and Bucky grunts as he tries to get to his feet and fails. The human is wearing the lab coat and nitrile gloves of one of the laboratory staff, an arm load of shock collars on hand. His stature isn’t imposing, even for a human, but he doesn’t really need it. If the cats know better, they’ll follow his orders without question. This is the intake office that would decide if they are headed to training, the kennels, the labs, or straight to the Red Room. “Out now!”

Brock drops out of the wagon, then drags Bucky down after him by the scruff of his neck. Bucky holds in a scream as his tail turns him over just in time for him to land on his feet, driving his broken ribs against each other, and doesn’t even care that he has to grab onto Brock’s arm to stay standing.

“You two. No collars. To the right.” The man says, tossing them each a heavy band of metal. Bucky swallows and puts the disciplinary collar around his own neck, feeling the maglock slam shut as soon as the ends meet. His left hand is long gone, but more pieces of his prosthetic finally let go, shards of metal clattering to the floor as he hobbles into the fenced in pen to the right of the truck as shocks of dispersing energy continue to rattle his bones.

Heavily armed CFC guards watch them from all sides, shouting orders and keep their weapons trained on the cats as they slowly get separated between the two cages. Some still wear handcuffs when they join Brock and Bucky in the ‘no collar’ cage, others panic, resist, and are immediately put down with batons. One cat with a flame of red hair and black ears bites one of the guards so badly, the man’s fingers come off in her mouth with a spray of blood. She’s immediately struck in the back of the knees with a baton, than shot through the head. Bucky doesn’t watch, but Brock does, mumbling out a shocked curse as intake continues like nothing happened.

Bucky notices the two toms wind up in their cage, along with a female cat in a red dress covered in sparkling sequins, and a handful of others that look bewildered and lost without their owners. Most of these cats have nothing to do with Black Panther, but Bucky couldn’t say for sure. He wouldn’t have guessed Pietro or Brooklyn would have either, and yet here he is, without his collar thanks to them. He stares at the floor as the intake officer yells at them, already knowing what the human has to say and too weak to keep his chin up.

They’ll be processed through basic hygiene. They’ll have their licenses run. If they don’t have licenses, they will be fingerprinted and go into secondary where they will wait to see if they CFC can dig up any criminal record. If they do have licenses, their keepers will be immediately notified, and fined. If their keepers don’t claim them, their licenses revert to the CFC’s holding and they will be processed again to either the labs, training, or to the kennels.

Bucky has heard it all before. He never had a license once he had been discharged from the military, and every time they found something in his record that got him punished. No one here cares what the cats might have to say for themselves, so there’s no point in telling the humans that he’s no feral. There’s no point in asking them to watch the ceremony where he just stood, shoulder to shoulder with the President of the United States. There’s no point in saying that his keeper likely can’t claim him, because Steve Rogers likely wound up in a hospital somewhere, or worse. All he can hope for is that they don’t send him back to Dr. Lukin and the labs, but there isn’t much point to train or kennel a one-armed uncut male.

Bucky isn’t sure if it’s his injuries or being in this place, but the hopelessness of their situation is so vast that at the moment he can’t imagine any scenario where he walks out of this room alive.

“Excuse me, sir,” Brock calls out, and the intake officer looks up sharply from his tablet. “I’m an SCF with the Secret Service. I don’t think I belong here.”

“Funny.” The intake officer stares at him blandly, then takes in a bored breath. “You’re not tagged as a Secret Service SCF.”

Bucky wants to warn Brock to shut the fuck up, but he takes a step away from him instead. “Some bastards stole my license when I—” Brock’s jaw slams shut and his eyes bulge as electricity pops around his straining neck. His tail jerks straight out behind him and the veins pop out in his forehead and there’s another _whizz_ and a _pop_ before all at once he relaxes and drops to his knees, gasping.

“Mm hm,” the intake officer mumbles, makes a note of something on his tablet, and continues with his instructions in the same, bored tone. There will be no more questions. There will be no speaking. There will be no fighting. If they soil their clothes, new ones will not be provided. If they refuse to surrender their property, they will be treated as hostile. If they have any information about the Wakanda Movement or Black Panther, they are free to speak up now.

Bucky’s ears prickle when he hears that last bit, a new addition to the schpeel since the last time he went through intake. Some of the cats murmur in confusion, despite the fact they were just told they couldn’t speak, and Bucky overhears mostly confusion as to what they could possibly know about the terrorist. They likely had very little idea who it was that caused all that chaos at the ceremony that night. The two toms glare at Bucky but he offers up nothing, even when Brock lifts his chin and his bright orange tail rolls encouragingly. Bucky wouldn’t trust anyone at the CFC with intel about the Wakanda Movement, least of all a power tripping intake officer who is just as likely to have him shot as he is to listen to his report.

The human — no one says his name, and he certainly doesn’t bother introducing himself — starts the process of sifting through the collared cats first, scanning their licenses and sending the notifications to whatever aids that will summon their keepers. More than likely, most of them are back at their hotels, calling up the local kennels in search of their cats. It’s not long before he comes to their cage, gruffly demands their left hand for his fingerprint scanner, and glares at Bucky when he sees the ruined mess dangling out of his shoulder.

“Hm, the Lab for you then,” he murmurs, making a note on his tablet without bothering to check Bucky’s record.

“What?” Bucky blurts out. “You didn’t even check— Sir, I’m the Winter Soldier. I work with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I was on stage with the President of the United States tonight when he—”

The man gives a few bored taps on his tablet and Bucky stops short, waiting for the electric shock around his throat that doesn’t come. The man walks on, as if Bucky hadn’t even spoken, takes Brock’s fingerprint and grunts. Brock opens his mouth to say something, then remembers the harsh lesson from earlier and closes it with a click. The man glances up with a small smile, as if he’s proud to see Brock’s learning the rules so well, and moves on.

Another CFC vehicle arrives to dump a fresh batch of cats from the ceremony, these ones in even worse shape, some bleeding and a few with torn clothes. A small male cat Bucky doesn’t recognize starts shivering, and curls up against the chainlink before long. Once the humans have all their information, have explained the rules again for the newcomers and shocked another round of startled house cats into submission, they simply pack up and leave. They don’t say anything about when they’d be processed, didn’t offer a hint of when they might be back.

The lights go out overhead, and finally the cats start to sink to the cold, oily asphalt of the garage floor, realizing they were going to be left alone for the night. No one even bothered to remove the corpse of the red headed female that bit off the guard’s fingers, left as a warning to the rest of them.

“What’s happening?” Brock whispers to Bucky, keeping an eye on the two toms on the opposite side of the cage. A handful of other cats were added to their ranks, more cats the toms apparently knew. They looked like they might have worked on the backstage area at the theater, but Bucky couldn’t be sure.

“I don’t know. They probably went home for the night,” Bucky tells him, and sinks to the floor, gripping his side all the way down. He leans his head back against the cage and Brock paces in front of him, upright and angry about his uncomfortable new collar.

“That’s ridiculous,” Brock grumbles. “I am with the Secret Service and there was just an attack on the President of the United States. Why wouldn’t they just call?”

“You know why,” Bucky says. He’s tired of fighting this battle. His body feels like it’s coming apart at the seams, the mechanical components of his prosthetic still flashing with angry jolts of energy, his ribs screaming to be bound, and his brain throbbing just on the other side of his left eyeball. “They are looking for Panther’s insurgents. As far as they’re concerned, we’re all in on it together.”

“Bullshit,” Brock snorts, then snaps at the toms when they turn their attention back his way. “What are you looking at?”

“The Winter Soldier,” one of the newcomers answers boldly. She’s a big cat in her own right, with thick shoulders and a broken nose. “He’s been the President’s pet since day one. I’m not sure we can be safe staying the night in the same cage.” She adds the last big with a nod at the toms and the other cats trapped with them, who all nod immediately in agreement.

Then a cat with yellow hair and tortoiseshell coloring pops out of an apparent cat nap, perking up immediately. Bucky recognizes him from the transport, but he hadn’t said anything until now. “The Winter Soldier!” He grins wide, and Bucky winces when he sees one of his fangs is badly chipped. “You’ve gotta’ be kidding. I heard all about you. You’re a hero!”

“Oh, please,” Brock groans, rolling his eyes and his ears and his tail, just to be an ass.

“Um,” Bucky starts, trying to not get distracted by the civilian that walks right in the middle of their standoff.

“Yeah, sure!” The cat speaks too loudly, and even the miserable cats from the collared pen look over to see what the fuss is about. “I guess it’s hard to tell without that shiny arm, but you’re the one who's trying to get jobs for all us ex SCFs out there. I hoped I could apply for the program myself, if they’ll take me.”

“Oh,” Bucky never would have guessed this feline disaster could be a former SCF. “Yeah, of course. You have to be disabled in order to qualify.”

The other cat grins, then flicks his ears. “Deaf as a doornail! Reading lips is almost second nature to me by now. Humans took my hearing aids. Oh, sorry fellas,” he suddenly adds, turning around the to the group glaring daggers into his back. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Not at all,” the female from earlier answers, and takes a few paces back to her group. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

They wind up waiting all night. The cat that inadvertently broke up their fight sticks with them, planting himself in the middle of the floor so that he can talk Bucky’s ear off about his time as an Army SCF. Bucky listens politely at first, surprised to have met another sniper spotter, then starts to doze against the side of their prison. Eventually, the deaf cat, who never shared his name, falls into an easy silence and the rest of the night passes without incident.

It must be morning by the time the overhead lights come back on, and Bucky wakes up with a rattle in his chest that he sure hopes is from the cold, damp garage and not a punctured lung. His muzzle feels like it’s part of his face by now, pressing painfully into the skin over his nose, but he doesn’t dare ask one of his cellmates to remove it.

Brock stretches beside him, and Bucky kicks the other cat’s leg out of his space. Brock had possessively curled up next to Bucky’s hip, his tail falling across Bucky’s lap as they dozed, and Bucky already knows what the other cat is trying to do.

“What’s your fucking problem?” Brock snaps, showing his fangs.

“Fuck off, Brock,” Bucky growls.

“Is there breakfast?” The deaf cat murmurs, uncoiling from the tight ball he’d wadded himself up to that night.

“Hey!” The intake officer barks out, emerging just in time to see, because that’s just the sort of luck Bucky has. He’s accompanied by a host of CFC officers in thick, padded body armor, armed like the guards were the day before. It’s their escort into processing. “What did I say about fighting?”

“It’s alright,” a woman drawls out, trailing behind the group at a casual pace, her hands tucked smartly into a tight leather jacket. “That’s one of mine.”

What? Bucky sneaks a look at Brock to find the other cat equally confused.

“Are you sure, ma’am?” The intake officer glances down at his tablet. “That one has a record.”

“Which is none of your business,” she tells him, and doesn’t miss a beat when the smaller man stops in his tracks at her tone. “There should be another one. Blonde hair, tortie coloring…”

“Hi, Natasha,” the deaf cat calls out, waving from where he stays seated on the ground.

“Yes. That one.”

Bucky and Brock both scramble away from the gate as the intake officer approaches, unlocks it, then waves the deaf cat out. The human stops to give Bucky an impatient look when he doesn’t move to follow.

“I don’t know her,” Bucky tells him, looking quickly from the strange woman to the intake officer and back again. “I’m not hers.”

“He is,” Natasha insists. “Come on, Buck. Steve’s waiting for you at the hospital.”

Bucky swallows, and glances back at Brock. He doesn’t want to go with a stranger, doesn’t trust she isn’t some Hydra plant. The deaf cat seems happy enough to hand his demagnetized disciplinary collar over to the CFC officer and wait at her side, but Bucky has no idea who she is, and doesn’t move a muscle.

“You can refuse of course,” the intake officer says with a shrug. “Remit your license to the CFC. Not sure what Dr. Lukin will make of that thing on your shoulder but—”

“He’s not staying,” the woman tells him. “Bucky. Steve is doing fine. He’s at the hospital, with Sam. You can trust me.”

When she pulls his collar out of her jacket pocket, Bucky knows she’s lying. It’s instantly recognizable, a bright red leather strap with a shield license, still cut clean on one side where Brooklyn had sliced it from his neck. Bucky thinks of his kittens and tries not to feel the sting of their betrayal, focuses instead of what they told him before they bolted. Wakanda. The mission. Maybe he still has a way in after all.

Bucky steps out of the holding pen, and Brock grabs his shoulder. “Take me,” he asks.

“No chance,” Bucky tells him, and pulls free.

“You ungrateful—” Brock hisses. “These mongrels would have torn you apart in that van if it weren’t for me.”

Bucky wants to tell Brock to eat his whole ass, that he never asked for him to intervene. Bucky wants to remind Brock that he’s a dirty traitor, that he sold Bucky out to Jasper Sitwell and the CIA, and remind him breaking faith with a fellow feline no matter how much they hate each other is unforgivable. Still, Bucky doesn’t have it in him to completely turn his back on the other cat. Not after everything they’ve been through together.

“Um, ma’am. Brock is with the Secret Service. He was with me—”

“Not him,” Natasha says, with a dismissive wave. “Just you.”

“Please? He has valuable information about—”

“No,” she says, more firmly this time, and turns on her heel, ending the conversation. “Just you.”

Bucky gives one final glance over his shoulder, but doesn’t say anything else to Brock who only watches him leave looking only slightly annoyed, like he should have known better. Well. Fuck him anyway, Bucky thinks, following this Natasha person and the deaf cat out of the catacombs of the Triskelion. At least he tried.

Natasha leads Bucky and the deaf cat through security that practically falls at her feet to let her pass. She signs no paperwork, and is out into the parking lot without a backward glance. Bucky struggles to keep up with her surprisingly fast stride, right arm wrapped around his ribs as the left continues to flare up in pain at every other step. Finally, she stops at an unmarked van with no windows, yanks open the sliding door and waits for him to get in.

Bucky glances around quickly for signs of other guards before he refuses. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Natasha does a double-take, as if she forgot he was there, then looks at the deaf cat who only shrugs and climbs into the van. “You have a mission to complete,” she tells him. “Project Insight.”

“To hell with Project Insight,” Bucky says with a snort, but ruins it when he winces from pain. “I want to see Steve.”

“Captain Rogers is in the hospital,” Natasha explains. She has a slow, measured way of speaking that still somehow sounds like it’s on the edge of her patience. “His parents are with him, and so are about a dozen military police. They wouldn’t even let the President into his room to see him.”

That thought makes Bucky’s tail shiver. The President went to go see Steve, while Steve is alone, vulnerable, and only his useless father there to protect him. There’d be no way that could end well. Bucky shakes his head. “I still don’t know you,” he says. “I don’t know if anything you’re saying is true. I want to see Steve.”

Natasha chews on that for a few seconds. “Steve would want you to trust me. He’s a friend of mine. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“People like me don’t really have friends,” she explains, with a little self deprecating smile that Bucky isn’t sure he should believe. “I gave Steve the blue file on the Wakanda Movement. I was the one he called when he needed a particular specimen removed from his apartment, after you managed to pull it out of his neck.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide. Steve said he had called someone to take care of it, and no one else could have known where that thing came from unless he told her. This ‘sort of’ friend of Steve’s could be the only person who could help him now. Bucky carefully peeks inside the van before he climbs aboard, joining the deaf cat whose already fixing some flexible purple bands over his ears.

“Hearing aids,” he says, offering Bucky a wink when he catches him staring. Bucky could swear he’s actually seen these before, or something just like them in Tony Stark’s lab, but he’s too tired and in too much pain to ask. Instead, he watches the Triskelion pass out of sight in the rearview mirror for the second time in his life, after he was sure he was going to die there.

“Where are we going?”

“Catching up with a friend,” Natasha tells him. “I’d take you to see Rogers, but security is too tight at the hospital. I’ll go there after and let him know I found you. It wasn’t easy, by the way. The President is after blood.”

Bucky adjusts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t send his ribs digging into his side. He wishes he could just sleep for years, and wake up warm and whole in Steve’s bed.

 _Steve_. His lover. His best friend. Bucky irrationally feels a stab of grief, thinking suddenly that he’s going to have to get used to never waking up at Steve’s side again. This woman isn’t telling him anything that should convince him Steve is actually alright, but he chooses to believe her because the alternative is unthinkable. Still, what are the odds that things could ever go back to the way things were?

Natasha continues North for miles, then pulls off on an unmarked dirt track that runs into a wooded area, all the way into an old metal hanger. She tells both cats to stay put and gets out of the car first, just as another car rolls up. Bucky glances over to the deaf cat, Clinton, who doesn’t have any problem doing as he’s told. Bucky almost doesn’t either, until he hears a familiar voice outside. Bucky throws open the side door, and after what he saw at the theater, is not even a little bit surprised who that friend turns out to be.

There, leaning on a gleaming red and gold sports car, is Tony Stark.

“Bucko!” Tony blurts out. “You made it! Welcome to the Wakanda Movement.”

* * *

[Shaish](https://resinonao3.tumblr.com/post/169376171983/shaishart-resins-christmas-presents-i-cried) drew some incredible fanart of SWCYH for me for Christmas!! So sweet! 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter long before Black Panther was released, and I realize some of the tactics the characters take in this fic with regards to Wakanda and Black Panther conflict with the message of Ryan Coogler’s masterpiece. While I think it’s obvious that the treatment of humanoid felines are meant to be an allegory for social injustice in this world, I also want to disclaim that I have absolutely no intention in any way of diminishing the real life struggles of marginalized groups, or want to usurp their message with this fantasy setting. I considered stepping away from this fic for a while after seeing the film, because it touched me deeply and I wanted to examine how I was approaching conflict in this story, given the chapter’s title and contents. I think if I had seen Black Panther a year ago while I was still outlining my plans for The Wakanda Movement in this AU, I would have done things differently. Still, this is the story I had wanted to tell and I think if I changed course now it might break the back of what I was attempting to build. The journey I have been through with this fic has been long and committed and now that it’s nearly at its end I don’t want to stumble over doubt and second guessing. I’ll take these lessons for my next project and hope to grow as a human and a writer moving forward. My ask box on Tumblr is always open if anyone wants to have a discussion about it.


	30. Project Insight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank you to @keedylovesmcu and @snottygrrl for your AMAZING help beta-reading this chapter. I couldn't keep this up without such amazing support, and this really helped me get this up! Thank you, thank you!! 
> 
> This chapter has 2 pieces of art! Keep scrolling to see both!

“Made it?” Bucky flatly repeats. How the fuck is he supposed to respond to that?

The partial, mangled prosthetic throws Bucky off balance, and they both go sprawling when he punches Tony Stark in his big fat mouth. Bucky is exhausted, his reflexes not what he expects, and his broken rib digs in as he and Tony only begin to scrap. The small, red-haired human—Natasha—is the only one fast enough to separate them. She snatches Bucky by his ear before he can gain too much of the advantage, then drags him back to stand beside the van.

Tony props himself up on the dented hood of his shiny car and spits blood onto the floor. “Good to see you too,” he snaps, covering his bleeding mouth with his fingers. “Fine thanks I get for everything I’ve done-”

“Everything you’ve done!” The fucking _nerve_ of that idea, but Bucky has to back down again when Natasha crowds him against the van, warning him without a word. She’s released his ear, but he doesn’t dare raise a hand to her. Natasha’s small, the only human there, but something about her is unsettling enough to make Bucky cautious. “Pretending to play matchmaker while you’ve been behind all this from the start! Letting Black Panther in our room, those masks—I saw them in your lab!”

“Okay, first of all, I never let T’Challa into-”

But Bucky isn’t done yet and doesn’t want to hear anymore excuses. He cuts Tony off and points at Clint. “And what about him?” The scrappy tom finally glances up from where he’s taken a seat inside the open door of the van, as if he’s only just started paying attention to their conversation. “Even those hearing aids! You were working on those when we first met.”

“Huh.” Tony blinks, obviously surprised. “Well, when you put it like that-”

“Captain Rogers could have died!” Bucky rages, and he has to hold his broken rib, has to take in great gulps of air because what if they are lying to him? What if Steve has died? What would be the purpose of Bucky’s life? Bucky gulps down a miserable sob, hating how weak he feels all of a sudden, how helpless. “Is... he dead?”

“He’s alive,” Natasha insists, husky voice calm as ever, someone used to measuring each and every word. Bucky decides then and there that she must be a spy. Another reason Steve probably isn’t her friend and Bucky can’t actually trust her. Steve hates spies. Satisfied that Bucky is behaving, the human looks down on her phone screen before stepping back, giving him some space. “I wouldn’t have brought you here to meet everyone if they’d killed him.”

Everyone?

Bucky’s ears prick at the sound of twin engines, probably motorcycles, following along the track leading to their location. Tony only gives him a narrow look, still nursing his split lip, and Clint goes back to appearing entirely absent. The motorcycles stop just outside the wide barn doors, and now Bucky is dangerously outnumbered when he hears two more cats dismount. He was foolish not to have already assumed this would end in a fight. Natasha eyes him carefully, and shakes her head after noting his subtle shift in posture.

“T’Challa and Shuri,” she explains. The stump of Bucky’s prosthetic ratchets uselessly at his side as he tenses. It hurts, but he doesn’t let it show. “We’ve all been working against each other. Refusing to share what we know, making mistakes. That ends now, so they are here for a talk. Not for a fight. Can you handle that?”

Bucky could bite his own tongue out of his mouth with frustration. How often is he meant to stand beside his enemies and not fight? How often is he meant to be taken from his human’s side, right when Steve needs him the most? At least Tony isn’t pretending to be his friend anymore. As strange as the human woman is, the deaf cat is really the only unknown element. Bucky could likely escape, even with just the one arm, unless Clinton’s unreadable body language is just an act. Instead, he takes his chances, and when the two black clad panthers make their way inside, he handles it.

“The Winter Soldier...” T’Challa starts off. He runs his clawed fingers over his ears and his twin sister stops at his elbow to glare Bucky’s way. “We meet for a third time.”

* * *

“I can take a goddamn piss by myself,” Steve spits out, but his arms are shaking and he’s wheezing with the effort simply putting one foot in front of the other. The nurses have finally allowed him up, as long as he’s willing to stay strapped to a rolling IV drip. The wheels squeal across the linoleum as he shuffles in his sock-feet to the tiny water closet.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” General Rogers mutters, as he settles back in to his chair and watches Steve from across the room. “When you were in diapers-”

“You expect me to believe you changed a single, goddamn diaper?” Steve shoots back, laughs at the ridiculous mental image, then claps a hand over the fresh stitches in his side. That wasn’t worth it, but he’ll be damned if he gives away how much laughing at his father hurts. Besides, he doubts even his mother changed his diapers. He had a nanny until he was five. Steve makes it to the tiny bathroom, then to the tiny toilet, and gasps in relief when he finally empties his bladder, despite the sting from the freshly removed catheter. He hadn’t bothered to close the door behind him, even that amount of work seemed pointless and exhausting. Besides, he likes knowing his father is stuck staring at his backside while he takes a leak. Since the drugs have finally started to leave his system, everything hurts so badly that even the most childish victories feel good.

Unsurprisingly, his father is already ignoring him again by the time Steve starts the arduous task of shuffling back to his bed. General Rogers watches his phone intently from where he sits in obvious discomfort, all that pompous bulk stuffed between the thin arms of the narrow guest chair. Steve considers it yet another victory. It’s not like he asked the general to linger here after his mom already checked into the nearest hotel to get some proper rest. How long has Steve been here by now? Forty-eight hours? Seventy-two? Between the drugs and forced rest, everything sort of swims around if he tries to focus too hard on remembering any one thing that happened since he woke up.

“Hm,” the General grunts, and Steve is fully prepared to ignore what he has to say. “Someone got to your cat before my team could.”

“What? Who?” The hose in Steve’s side that stops his lung from collapsing pulls awkwardly when he leans too far over to get a look at his father’s phone. “When?”

“This morning.” Steve has a million more questions on the tip of his tongue, but then a muscle in the general’s jaw flexes when he finally meets Steve’s eyes. “SHIELD.”

Steve closes his mouth. He had no idea his father was read in on SHIELD or their operations. It makes sense, considering his rank, but Steve still isn’t prepared for the thought that his father may know a hell of a lot more than that.

“Oh. Look at that. No smart comments this time?”

“It’s coming,” Steve promises, and leans back into his pillows to catch his breath in his one, fully functional lung. For now, General Rogers has the advantage.

 _Fuck_ , his chest hurts.

“So… What is this cat to you?” The general says, more accusing than curious and Steve is so tired he doesn’t bother answering. It’s not like his father is going to listen—now or _ever_ —and then he continues. “I mean, _really_. Every man has his own private… thing. But the lengths you go. What you’ve become.”

“What I’ve become?” Steve repeats, unsure what his father means by that but knows it’s an insult. “Jesus, Dad… You’re never going to understand.”

“No. I suppose not,” the general quietly admits, then gives a small shrug. “You were always a mouthy son of a bitch. Spoiled. Arrogant. Your mother indulged you, said you were sensitive. I thought she meant like an _artist_ ,” he spits the word, as if that’s the insult. “Here I thought the thought the Army beat it outta’ ya, but I never knew how _bent_ my own flesh and blood could be.”

Steve exhales slowly, feeling the heat of his outrage, but none of the fire. He didn’t think it’d be here, now, but he knew this conversation was bound to happen eventually. He had already thought of a hundred arguments, a thousand, for himself, for Bucky, for what they have. Instead he stays silent, letting his father’s disgust wash over him, knowing there truly is nothing he can say. Nothing.

“Well. I guess it just proves how loyal a man can be to his son. I was ready to give up on you, but then I saw you take that bullet.” The general coughs, clears his throat to crush what is probably a surge of unwanted emotions. He pats Steve’s knee. Fatherly gesture accomplished. “So. Now, I ask you. What is that cat to you? Do you... love it like it’s another man, or. Some kind of-”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” Steve says. Maybe he is a little curious about his father’s terrible attempt at understanding, and Steve wants to stand up to him, he really does, but any energy he might have had for it is draining away by the bucketful and he feels hot and confused. Maybe even humiliated, in the kind of way someone can feel humiliated simply to satisfy someone else’s gaze who feels they should be. “Actually, can you just go?”

“Steven.”

“I’ll call the nurse.”

The general stands up too quickly and the chair scrapes back into the wall behind him. “Damnit, Steven! I don’t trust that animal Black Panther not to try something again. The president’s own Secret Service are posted outside of this room, but I’ll be damned if the same idiots who allowed-”

The Secret Service? Here? “Dad,” Steve starts talking before the general finishes his rant, but he seems surprised that Steve spoke at all. “What do you know about President Pierce?”

* * *

“So,” Bucky starts, as T’Challa’s long story comes to an end. “Wakanda isn’t real.”

“You haven’t been listening! Wakanda is-” Tony starts, but Bucky silences him with a look. It had been a pretty story, how the panther mantle passes down from generation to generation, not in a direct line, but as some kind of ritual title among the indoctrinated few. It sounds an awful lot like the way the RNS operates, from what he’s heard.

“Not a real _place_ ,” Bucky corrects himself, and glances up to T’Challa. So far, Shuri has remained quiet at her brother’s side. Pair bonded twins, like himself and Becca, like Pietro and his long lost sister Wanda. Shuri and T’Challa both wear the mask of the Black Panther, inciting protests all over the country to encourage cats to, what? Organize? Bite the hand that feeds them? Bucky thinks of Brooklyn, of how easy it would be to convince such a young, furious cat to join their little gang. “You use fairy tales to recruit kittens into your insurgency.”

“You think the Movement is just a bunch of brainwashed soldiers,” T’Challa infers, with a sad shake of his head. “Our family is so much more than that. We are proud. We are free.”

Bucky snorts. “You’re kidding yourselves if you think you’re any freer than the rest of us wearing collars.” Bucky’s hand goes to his throat just then, remembering his own collar was stolen, license erased, and he’s pissed about it all over again. “Why did you shoot Steve?”

T’Challa’s ears stand up, finally alarmed by what Bucky has to say, but Shuri is the one to answer. “It was a mistake.”

“I understand that,” Bucky flatly tells her. “Obviously, you were aiming for Pierce, but why would-”

“That is not what I mean,” Shuri sharply tells him. “But there is much you do not know.” She glances at T’Challa, who nods some silent agreement, and she starts again. “These creatures cannot be killed by regular means. They wear human skin like a mask. Our plan was solid: land a kill shot on the president and break the mask. Expose him for the monster he is. Now, we know that he was expecting us. Even if your Captain Rogers had not taken the bullet, Pierce was prepared.”

Bucky’s skin crawls, thinking of that unmistakable sensation of being near the president, of the wrongness and fear, of Zola’s face, broken open to reveal such a monster underneath the human facade. “So you know? You know about Zola?”

Shuri nods, and it’s T’Challa that continues next. “Most people believe there are two races that populate the Earth: Humankind and humanoid felines. In ancient civilizations, such as Egypt, felines ruled.” Bucky scoffs at this, a myth that has never been proven, but T’Challa continues, undeterred. “In some civilizations, across Southern Africa and China, we know rule has been shared, equally, harmoniously, between feline and human. Yet all we ever learn about is what became of us after the Great Die Off, humans controlling all, and any record of felines having our own culture was destroyed. Our duty, as the Wakanda Movement, is to make sure that knowledge lasts for generations, so that we will always know about hydra, the third race that now dominates all.”

“Hydra,” Bucky says, and shakes his head. “That’s not possible. It’s just the one person. Or two. Arnim Zola, from Sakhalin. A vampire or something, infecting people. I’ve seen it.”

“You are partially correct,” Shuri adds, and suddenly her tone shifts, encouraging and nodding along, as if she’s proud Bucky put that much together. “A creature of many heads, but no body. Much like an Aspen tree, where you can see many plants sharing one root system. This hydra infects and controls those who serve it, and through this method, hydra has come to control entire governments. Only, it seems a hydra can live on, as long as one host is infected, eventually destroying that person altogether. Also, we do not know if it is only one entity, but we do know its influence reaches all over the world.”

Bucky swallows, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he thinks of his twin, of how he always assumed she was leading a charmed life, safe as a celebrity in a country that seems to adore her. “Japan?”

Shuri cocks her head to the side, ears rounding out curiously, but it’s the human, Natasha who answers. “The first nation to fall. Japan is likely how the United States was introduced to it, when we opened trade with them during the Great Die Off. That’s when it all started, but we still don’t know where it came from.”

It… makes sense. From everything Bucky has seen. From Steve’s strange behavior, in thrall to the president. The thing in his neck, and his odd behavior. “The Great Die Off. It was hydra? Why?”

“Only we are immune to their influence,” T’Challa says. “Hydra kept a portion of us always. Building the breeding programs, sustaining us as tools, but never allowing us to freely procreate our race back to the numbers we once were. They hate and fear us too much. That is why we are freer than those wearing collars.”

And that is where they lose him. “We’re not,” Bucky says, and T’Challa frowns.

“Only ask the cats you left behind in the kennel and you will see-”

“That’s not what I mean,” Bucky interrupts the other cat with a snarl. “We’re not all immune. On Sakhalin, five years ago, when all this started. The base we raided was supposed to be full of RNS insurgents, but they had an entire regiment of SCFs themselves. Dangerous. Well trained. I figured they were just trafficked illegally from us or maybe Western Europe, but one of them,” Bucky stops, remembering suddenly that was the first one of the Russian SCFs he had killed that night. He puts that memory aside and continues. “Before he died, he said, _hail hydra._ He was one of them. He had to be. No cat could have served in that place without knowing Zola was there.”

“Impossible,” Shuri says, with a flippant little shrug of her narrow shoulder.

“Do you think I’d lie?” Bucky argues to the smug female. “It was the last thing he said before I killed him. And he had a set of-” Bucky flicks a look down to his own arm left arm, finds it still missing, and nods over to Shuri and T’Challa. “Your claws.”

That shuts them up.

“Well, shit.” Tony breathes out, and for some reason it’s Natasha he glares at. She doesn’t look at all surprised. “We had a Russian cell. The first ones to receive my prototypes, in fact, before we completely lost contact. Figured they were discovered by the Americans or the RNS… didn’t expect it to be…” Tony trails off as the implication settles in. “Damn.”

“Ready to admit it now?” Bucky snaps, still not forgetting his betrayal.

“Admit what?” Tony shoots back. “I’m sorry, do you want me to apologize for finding a way to give a weapon back to our own people?”

That’s where Bucky loses it again. “Your weapons make us targets!” He roars. “ I never asked to be one! I never asked for those claws, I never asked to be the Winter Soldier, I never even asked to be a hunter! Do you think I wanted to be taken from my family? And forced to- and- and-”

 _Fuck!_ Bucky’s chest heaves, broken rib scraping his insides raw, and he drops to his knees.

“Tony didn’t have the claws put into your arm,” Natasha calmly explains, and Bucky blinks through his watery eyes at her. She hasn’t moved, still leaning against the side of the van, arms crossed over her narrow chest. “I did.”

There it is. More proof that Bucky can’t trust her.

“Huh,” Tony grunts. “And here I thought it was Rogers. My bad.”

Bucky should punch him again, just for that.

“Agent Ward,” she continues, ignoring him. “Captain Ward, when you knew him. I knew there was something different about him. Director Coulson is one of the good guys but sometimes… Sometimes he trusts the wrong person. Well, let’s just say I have my own questionable history.”

“Natasha…” Clint finally speaks up, as if he’s surprised the human found her voice at all. She waves him off.

“We’re here to put all the pieces together, right? We’re in this mess to begin with because we’re not sharing all our intel. So here’s mine. I’ve worked for SHIELD for a long time. After Captain Ward came back from Sakhalin, it was all he could do to join up. Give up his post in the military, completely abandon his current career trajectory for a shot at being a junior field agent. It didn’t fit. Call it intuition, for now,” she adds. “When I met the man I knew something was wrong. I figured that same thing was wrong with Captain Rogers, so I tried to keep an eye on him. I had him pegged for being worse off than Ward. Turning the world upside down just to find you. No man crashes his career that hard over a lost pet,” she adds, and Bucky forcibly reminds himself he’s not allowed to attack her. “When General Rogers had you erased, I thought that perhaps he was protecting a witness. That you might know too much about what happened in the Heat Sink, and what _Captain_ Rogers became. It took me until I met him to realize I picked the wrong Rogers to trust.”

“A lot of people make that mistake,” Bucky flatly tells her.

“Anyway,” Tony butts in. “That’s when I got to play matchmaker between our prosthetics initiative and the Winter Soldier program.” Tony chimes in, looking mighty proud despite his fat lip. “I was working with the Wakandans on the downlow, and when they came to me with Zola’s laptop-”

Tony continues bragging for a few more beats about how he facilitated the relationship between the JCS and someone named Colonel Rhodes, but Bucky stopped listening halfway through. Zola’s laptop, the one Steve collected right before the explosion. Bucky remembers it, but it’s not just that. It’s something else, something emerging from the haze of pain and overwhelming scent of his own blood. Something another scientist altogether had in mind. “Lukin,” he sighs, the name drawn out of him reluctantly.

Tony stops talking, face twisted up in annoyance when he realizes Bucky hadn’t been paying attention. “Who?”

“Lukin. Lukin. Lukin the doctor from the Triskelion. The things he did.” Bucky’s voice fails as the memories abruptly come into focus, the sensation of clawing at his own face, at a muzzle, one that fed tubes and hoses down his nose, stretched the soft tissue of his sinus apart, filled him with poison. How could he have forgotten? That pain, that fear, so strong it must be the only thing he’s ever managed to truly feel. Escaping Lukin had been a choice he was grateful he could make, the _only_ choice, before Steve pulled him out of the Red Room. Why is he putting all this together now? He had gone for so long with the happy bliss of leaving it all behind in a muddy haze, just another dirty thing that had happened to him in a long line of dirty things. So much has happened to him since then, so much more warmth and happiness, and yes pain too, but there had also been Steve and baseball and so much good food.

Lukin’s voice breaks through all the noise and reminds him again, _Doctor Zola would be ashamed of you._

“Lukin’s experiments,” Bucky blurts out, suddenly starting over. “Lukin’s experiments were based off of Zola’s.”

“What?” Natasha drops her arms, finally unsettled. “What do you mean?”

“Something Zola was doing on Sakhalin,” Bucky explains, tugging on a spiderweb thin thread of memory, coaxing it out of the angry black jumble in the back of his mind. “Lukin was trying to replicate.”

“Zola was working on Project Insight, I thought,” Tony says to T’Challa, who only shakes his head, because he doesn’t know what Bucky is talking about either. “That’s what we found on his laptop.”

“No,” Bucky is so close, following the thread now, deeper down, back into the testing labs, back onto Lukin’s table. It’s right there, snippets of conversation, barely understood through thick accents, a constant weight of fear and hopelessness, confusion and violence. “No, no,” Bucky sighs again, he’s so tired, but he’s not quite there yet.

There’s more to this, a whole history of pushing and pulling, of conquest and subjugation, of victory and defeat, and one final weapon to end it all. It’s Tony and the Wakandans, it’s Pietro and Brooklyn, it’s Steve and Freddie and his mother and even Brock. All the people he’s met, all the cats, all the humans, all the tiny choices leading up to the moment where he wound up on stage with Steve Rogers and President Pierce.

“The Russian cat,” Bucky finally says, coming to the end of the thread, the only thing that makes sense. “And Brock, who works for the Secret Service now. He couldn’t sense it on Steve, even when he’d...” The pieces click into place. “Lukin succeeded using Zola’s research on Sakhalin. Our immunity can be undone.”

T’Challa looks at Shuri, whose big brown eyes are open wide in shock. Tony curses again.

Natasha frowns, “I see. From what we know, Project Insight is just a targeting program. It’s a political campaign, launched by the J5 Directorate, demanding the surrender of felines or humans known to have had any affiliation with Wakanda after it’s reclassified from an activist organization to a terrorist one. We thought it was just an elimination protocol. Another Great Die Off, politically driven rather than biologically.”

“This is much worse,” Clint adds, finally speaking up.

“You think too much like a human,” Bucky mutters miserably, agreeing with the tom. “This thing. It’s playing the long game. It doesn’t want to just eliminate us. It wants to breed it out of us.”

Silence stretches on for a long time. Natasha glares at her phone, texting madly to someone, Shuri and T’Challa contemplate side by side in silence, and Clint leans into the door jam of the van and closes his eyes. Tony is the only one who fidgets restlessly, and it’s finally him who breaks. He stomps towards Bucky, apparently forgetting why his chin has turned several shades of purple.

“So?” He practically snarls in Bucky’s direction. “What the hell are you going to do about it?”

“Me?”

“Are you kidding? Is he kidding?” Tony turns to the Wakandans, but they don’t play along. “We made sure to get you out of that place. Hell, I vouched for you even when the murder twins wanted to take you out,” Tony adds. “You are in the perfect position to get close to Pierce, especially after the whole _world_ saw you fight Black Panther.”

Tony’s finger comes dangerously close into Bucky’s personal space, jabbing at the air in front of him with every step while Natasha is several paces away, no longer between them. Bucky doesn’t flinch, and instead takes the step and a half to close the space between them, showing the smaller cat his fangs.

“No one asked me! No one asked me to be part of this war. I was stolen. Captain Rogers dangled in front of me like bait. You used him and you used me. You’re just as bad as _them_.” Bucky snarls the last word, making it clear who he means. Humans, always the humans, dragging him through life on a leash. “All of you. I’m done being manipulated. Take me to Captain Rogers, or I’m leaving.”

“With those injuries?” Shuri points out, and her voice is thin, as if she actually cares, and T’Challa puts a hand on her shoulder to stop her approach.

“You would not last the night,” T’Challa argues, backing up his sister.

“I’ve had worse,” Bucky spits back, then turns to Natasha, who is the only one with any real kind of authority present. “You said this is happening because we’re not all sharing what we know, but you’re still missing _half_ of me by keeping me separate from him.” Natasha’s eyes go wide, but Bucky doesn’t care what she might be inferring. He stands his ground. “Captain Rogers. Now.”

* * *

As it turns out, General Rogers doesn’t know much about Alexander Pierce. That is to say, he knows everything everyone else knows, everything on the man’s Wikipedia page, everything the press covered during the election ad nauseum. The scariest skeleton in Pierce’s closet is that he had never been married, and that hadn’t been enough to hang an election scandal on, and is widely considered one of the cleanest politicians in DC.

Steve’s head is clear enough to remember he hadn’t voted for him, despite the squeaky clean reputation. Something about the man always struck Steve as disingenuous, trying to win favors on the liberal ticket without any clear policies towards diversity, inclusion, healthcare or other hot-button topics that other candidates shouted themselves hoarse about. His whole campaign was built on the occupation of Russia, which Steve is admittedly a bit too close to.

A thought occurs to him, and he looks up sharply to his father. “Why did you vote for him?”

“Who says I did?”

Steve can’t contain his bark of laughter, and immediately hisses in pain and clutches his side. “Damn it, Dad.”

“Alright, don’t bust a stitch on my account!” The general folds his arms across his chests. “So maybe I just claimed I picked a winner. Tell you the truth, never liked a guy without a little bit of a dark side.”

Well, that’s frighteningly close to Steve’s own reasons for not voting for him. Still, he wants to dig deeper into his father’s aging lie. “You didn’t vote for Pierce?”

“Oh, come on son, here I thought you had a smart answer saved up for me.” General Rogers rocks back in his chair, forcing the two hind legs to bare the brunt of his weight. “If you really wanna know, I figured Pierce for an idealistic, sheltered coward. Besides, what self respecting military man would vote for a guy whose entire platform was based on demilitarization?”

Poking at that age old wound between them suddenly makes Steve forget why he had been asking. “One who appreciates the real price of any conflict!”

“Billions, son.” General Rogers asserts. “That’s what that damn pipeline is costing this country. _Billions_.”

“Small price for peace,” Steve says. “For independence for a sovereign nation. For reduction of conflict-”

“You’ve been drinking your own kool-aid? You think everything’s going as swell over there as your press releases say? The RNS are as aggressive as ever. The pipeline is only opening up China to their particular brand of insurgency, and believe me the Chinese won’t thank us for it in the long run.”

“Then why the hell did you do it?” Steve doesn’t understand, and the way his father’s arms fall to his sides and mouth drops in shock, he thinks maybe General Rogers doesn’t understand either. “Dad? Why did you broker the deal?”

“Well.” General Rogers clears his throat, and for once in his life looks unsure. “Orders are orders.”

“That doesn’t make any...” But it makes perfect sense.

China’s borders had been closed to international travel and trade since the Great Die Off, with only a few emissaries allowed to travel under strict conditions. The nation supposedly advanced without Western influence for generations, with at least enough technology to block their imaging satellites from watching their nation from above. One great, dark mystery, and all it took was an oil pipeline from a newly independent Russia to open up Pandora’s box. “I need to get out of here.”

“Fat chance, kiddo.”

Steve’s phone blurts on his side table, and text lights up his screen as if it heard him. Steve sinks back into his pillows when he reads the two simple words from an unlisted number.

_> >Got him._

Natasha. General Rogers said it was SHIELD, but Steve feels better knowing it’s her and not Director Coulson. Ward is SHIELD now as well, and who knows what would happen to Bucky if that’s who he wound up with. The general waits expectantly, watching him text Natasha back, but Steve doesn’t have anything left for his father. It should have been Steve to rescue Bucky from that horrible place, should have been Steve that’s with Bucky now.

_> >Hospital is compromised. Don’t trust anyone. _

Steve doesn’t know how to respond to that. He looks back to his own father, wondering if she means the general as well. Steve could never say he trusted his father, but somehow he doesn’t think the man has been corrupted by Pierce. General Rogers is an opportunist and an arrogant bastard, a liar and an abusive alcoholic, but Steve had been so twisted up in blind loyalty that he convinced himself he’d voted for Pierce in the last election and his father still has his own opinion of the man. The sudden memory of that unquestioning faith, that deep, twisted love, makes Steve shiver.

“Cold? The nurses said that might happen with the type of painkillers you’re on.” General Rogers stands to take hold of the dial keeping Steve’s drip steady.

“I’m fine,” Steve snaps, but he isn’t really. He’s exhausted, and knowing that Bucky is safe suddenly takes the fight out of him, which as it turns out was the only thing keeping him up. Steve drifts again, so many more questions left to ask, but without the strength to ask them. He sinks in the added warmth of another blanket welcoming the fuzzy shadow that envelopes him when his father touches the dial on his medication and takes the pain away.

* * *

Tony’s fancy car is just as fast as it looks, and soon they are on the highway, headed back towards civilization. The Wakandans had apologized for shooting Steve, but it hadn’t been enough, and their conversation came to an abrupt end when Bucky decided he was done.

“Okay,” Tony says, breaking the silence that lasted no more than two minutes. “Are you going to keep pouting over this all day or what?”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He hasn’t decided yet. “How are you even allowed to drive?” Bucky murmurs instead, glancing over watch how Tony handles the sports car. The forest falls away into the suburbs of DC as they headed back into the city.

“I have a Japanese driver license,” Tony says with a grin. “Loophole means they have to honor it here. I get fined from cops who want to make a big deal of it, but it’s only a couple hundred bucks, so who cares?”

A couple hundred bucks. Sounds like a lot, every time he wants to get behind the wheel. Bucky goes back to staring out the window, refusing to be impressed with the way Tony constantly manages to avoid any laws actually applying to him. At one time, maybe Bucky would have admired it, but instead he’s only reminded of how easily he has been manipulated. Not just by Tony, but by Brooklyn and the others as well. His very own kittens. He clenches his ruined collar in his only remaining hand. Even after all of this, he still wishes he had asked the Wakandans where his cadets wound up. Were they safely back at base? On the run? Did they wind up in the pound? The others might make it, but Brooklyn wouldn’t last a day in one of those horrible places. Too mouthy to be a pet, too runtish to pull down any manual labor jobs…

“Where are we going?” Bucky asks, as soon as Tony turns off the freeway into a neighborhood he doesn’t recognize. The residential streets are lined with grim apartment buildings, windows closed off with bars and filthy curtains. It reminds Bucky of Sakhalin. Tony’s fancy car makes him feel like they are already a target for a roadside ambush.

“We have a place in the Highlands,” Tony tells him. “Inconspicuous, untraceable. Bought under a shell corporation. We’ll be safe there for whatever comes next. Figured I could take off that arm, if you’re done with your tiff.”

“I am not _tiffing_ ,” Bucky snarls, forgetting about the bad neighborhood. “I trusted you. I trusted _only_ you, and with a secret that could have destroyed us. Instead you’ve been working with the cats that almost killed him.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you didn’t know about me and Pepper. Do you really think that’s something I would have told anyone? We’re both cats, for fuck’s sake!”

“Yeah? Then why wouldn’t you warn me about the assassination plan at the awards’ ceremony? You were there, I know you were.”

“We tried to warn you! Some cats from the STRIKE cadets were told to-”

“Kittens, Tony! Pietro and Brooklyn are seventeen years old! Your precious Wakanda Movement is pulling them into a war, and there’s no way they’ll-”

“They already signed up for a war!” Tony shouts, and revs the engine, frustrated that he’s had to slow down as traffic builds up around them. “We’re just giving them what they need to fight the real enemy. You want to take that away from them? To take away Pietro’s only chance at seeing his sister? To take away Brooklyn’s chance to get out of the military before it kills him?”

“Tch!” Bucky doesn’t know why he even got into this fight, and figures he should have kept his mouth shut. They’re quiet for a long time, and eventually Tony seems to accept the pace of the traffic around him. At least Bucky knows he got under his skin. “Why didn’t you explain any of this before?”

“Well, I would have if someone hadn’t been tiffing.”

Bucky snorts. “Just drive.”

It doesn’t take much longer for Tony to pull into an underground garage, dimly lit with only a few other vehicles in sight all draped in protective covers. They climb stairs made of rotting concrete, and enter through a heavy steel door that practically screams on its hinges and looks like it’s held together with decades of lead paint. Past it is a courtyard, entirely encircled by the building and overgrown with weeds. Tony leads him through a filthy foyer, ignoring the broken furniture and stained mattress leaning up against the stairs, and Bucky finds himself blinking in awe when they walk through an old, groaning door covered in peeling paint to discover the most luxurious townhome Bucky has ever seen.

Tony’s safe house is impressive in ways that even Stark Tower isn’t, a fully automated smart home with with glass panels for walls that turn opaque on voice command. There are common areas with piles of beanbag chairs and plush carpet, a gym with climbing walls and treadmills designed specifically for quadding. Tony tells him the top storeys are individual apartments for families, thirty in all. At the moment it’s still vacant though, and when Bucky asks who all these apartments are for, Tony looks away and darkly mutters, “Us.” Bucky isn’t sure if he means cats that are part of the Wakanda movement, or cats in general, but it’s clearly not designed with humans in mind. Bucky has never seen anything like it.

They eventually wind up in a medical bay (and because Tony clearly designed this place, it seems to double as a high tech workshop) that sits mid-level between the common floors and apartments. Bucky gingerly lays back on some kind of gel-cushioned examination chair while Tony strips down to his undershirt and snaps latex gloves over his hands.

“Let’s take a look at this thing,” he says, with a delicate tool in hand. He fits its angled edge under one of the plates on Bucky’s shoulder, slides it down until Bucky feels the click all the way through his bones. “Ah. It deformed here, which made the whole thing buckle. No wonder it lost its integrity so, er, spectacularly. It basically tore itself apart after this piece collapsed.”

Bucky leans his head back and stares at the ceiling, because he doesn’t want to watch this part. The implant is permanent, and thankfully undamaged, or so Tony tells him. However, the prosthetic arm that connects to the implant is completely destroyed. It’s a shock when Tony finally gets the prosthetic to let go, and Bucky clenches his teeth while the other cat carefully separates the sensors that connect the prosthetic to the implant. Bucky tries to manage his pain by beating his tail against the floor and clenching his eyes shut as hard as he can. It’s a bit like having a rotten tooth removed, heat and pain abruptly interrupted by a release, then followed by a flood of relief so strong that exhaustion immediately takes hold.

Without the prosthetic Bucky’s whole shoulder is nothing but a concave anchor on his left side, a few sensitive artificial nerves exposed to the chilly air and the bar joining his real skeleton left without a match. It’s grotesque, and reminds him how much of his real flesh and blood he gave up in order to have that damn prosthetic in the first place.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything else for you to use here,” Tony says, as he gently nudges the loose sensory receptors back into the implant’s exposed socket. “At least you won’t have this thing misfiring all the time. On the bright side, it’ll give us a chance to try out my latest prototype! I’ve just figured out a way to allow hot and cold sensation to a simple-”

“And more claws?” Bucky interrupts, and Tony pauses while he fits the sterile cap over the bare implant, which gives Bucky some semblance of shoulder.

“Didn’t you think they were useful?”

“That’s not the point,” Bucky says. “You’re turning all of the Winter Soldiers into weapons, aren’t you.”

“I’m doing what I can for the Movement,” Tony explains, a little bit of his flippancy checked. “Stark Industries is powerful enough to make a difference. By making these prosthetic available to Winter Soldiers, we can recruit some of the most talented, capable felines, and let them hide weapons in plain sight.”

“But you were mad when you thought Steve added mine. You thought the military was behind it. So you were fine giving cats weapons, as long as we’re only using them for your agenda.”

Tony shrugs. “I thought he was manipulating you. The way you smelled. His weird history with Zola. T’Challa warned me he could be behind everything, given his father’s position in the government. Then I thought, maybe you’re more… like me. For what it’s worth, I’m glad I was right.”

“Fat lot of good it did me,” Bucky grumbles. “They erased my goddamn license, Tony. What am I supposed to do now?”

“Okay, but in the kits’ defense, all they knew was that your human saved that monster and then you attacked their leader,” Tony rushes out. “Can you blame them? Even I was confused as hell when I saw him take that bullet and I knew about the two of you. If it’d been Pepper, I don’t know what I’d think...”

Bucky doesn’t have anything to say to that. In a way, Tony trusted Bucky with his most dangerous secret too. “How much does Pepper know?”

“About all this?” Tony takes in a deep breath, and draws his knees up so that he’s perched on the stool, tail wrapped around his ankles. “I try to protect her from the details. Plausible deniability, if the worst happened. Pepper can’t get caught up in my fight. I wouldn’t have told her any of it, but she figured me out pretty quickly once she saw what I was trying to do with those prosthetics. When she decided to help me is when things between us got… well,” Tony laughs. “A hell of a lot more complicated, actually.”

“It’s her fight, too,” Bucky reminds him, and Tony blinks his wide, golden eyes thoughtfully and doesn’t say any more about it. He wraps Bucky’s broken rib and bandages a few cuts Bucky hadn’t even noticed among his far worse injuries. After Tony tells him he doesn’t know what happened to the STRIKE cadets, they seem to run out of conversation. At least for now, it seems Bucky gave the arrogant cat something to think about.

It’s still too dangerous for Bucky to visit Steve in the hospital, or even call, so he and Tony have a quiet meal in front of the television on one of the wide open common floors. Everything in this building smells new, unused, but unlike Bucky’s own dorm in the Winter Soldier barracks, it doesn’t give him any sense of ownership or agency. Instead, he feels uncomfortable, displaced, and the anxiety of being kept apart from Steve doesn’t help.

The news channel doesn’t seem to have any real information, relying on recapping what happened at the Nobel Prize Ceremony over and over again to keep people tuned in. The president of the United States survived an assassination attempt. The cats responsible were apprehended by a joint effort between the Secret Service and the CFC, which is a lie, since Bucky had already seen T’Challa and Shuri after the fact. The Wakanda Movement is being blamed for the attack, which is true, but of course the news isn’t interested in why. The ‘brave officer’ who saved the president is in stable condition at an undisclosed location while the danger to his life from subsequent attacks is being investigated. Bucky figures victimizing Steve like this is just their excuse to basically keep him prisoner.

Bucky bites his own lip when Steve’s staff photo appears on the screen. He decides Steve doesn’t look like himself at all, face blank and devoid of any personality or charm that Bucky knows so well. His crisp uniform is flawless, his JCS pin proudly displayed, and he’s posing in front of the United States flag like he’s having his mugshot taken.

“He’ll be okay,” Tony pipes up, but Bucky doesn’t have the heart to pick up his ears at the reassurance. Steve is hurt. Bucky should be there with him. It’s his _job_ , for fuck’s sake. Is someone there to make sure he drinks lots of water? Steve never drinks enough water.

Bucky sinks deeper into the beanbag chair, feeling a satisfying cronch of the pellets that deform around him. “How much longer will it be?”

Tony stretches in his own beanbag, mouth parting wide as he yawns before he curls back up. “How should I know?”

“It’s your plan!”

“The _plan_ was to force their hand with Project Insight, since we knew it was coming anyways. The _plan_ was to shoot that monster so that he’d have to reveal himself. No one planned for your dumb human to literally get in the way of it,” Tony scoffs. “And by the way, why did he take that bullet for Pierce?”

Bucky’s mouth is already open to snap at Tony for calling Steve a dumb human, but his argument dies when Tony throws him that curveball. “I… don’t know.”

“Mm hm,” Tony smugly hums, rolling his tail in a little _gotcha_ curl. “So maybe cool it with all the accusations. Right now, he’s not looking all that precious.”

“Damn it.” Bucky sighs as hard as he can with his taped ribs. “If I could at least call him I’d just ask. He probably knows something we don’t. He wouldn’t have protected Pierce without a reason.”

“Mm hm,” Tony hums again, and Bucky blows a frustrated chuff into his arms. Why _did_ Steve protect Pierce, of all people?

Exhaustion starts to creep in, a full belly and painkillers making him just comfortable enough to start dozing despite his injuries. Bucky must've dropped off into actual sleep at some point, because the next thing he knows, Tony has batted at his tail to wake him up.

“We’re going to have company soon,” Tony explains, and gestures to the television. The president is on, working his way through some speech about rising feline aggression. Outrageously, Steve’s own portrait appears as the president describes the brave soldier, struggling to survive after such a vicious and cowardly attack. Bucky glances at Tony, because this seems like just more of the same human bullshit that he’s heard from the president before, but Tony points back at the screen.

The ticker at the bottom of the screen reads: **Joint Chiefs Launch Project Insight: target feline terrorist cells operating out of the US.**

* * *

 

AMAZING SNOW LEOPARD BUCKY COSPLAY by [thewinterslave](http://thewinterslave.tumblr.com/post/172488488768/i-did-another-thing)

 

[Deandraws](http://deandraws.tumblr.com/post/172740476415/commission-brooklyn-and-pietro-by-deangrayson) is at it again, this time with Brooklyn and Pietro! I was really excited for these cats to show off their fancy formal uniforms. It's a double dose of trouble with these two.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. That took a long time :( I have to apologize to all you amazing folks for sticking with this wip for so long, especially as the times between chapters stretch out longer and longer. In the new year I traveled a lot for work, then promptly got sick several times in a row. Plus, I'll be super honest, but I was also working on a new Stucky fic and got really carried away, completing it early for the next Captain America Big Bang challenge. I'm really excited for it, and hope everyone checks it out when it goes up this fall! 
> 
> In the meantime, this fic only has a handful of chapters left! So I am ready to get back to work and get this whole complicated story finished! Thank you soooo much for your support, and for dropping by to say hi on Tumblr! It means the world to me!


	31. Hydra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE:  
> Multiple pieces of artwork on this chapter! :) 
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

It takes two days for Tony’s sanctuary to fill up, and Bucky has never seen so many feral cats in one place in his entire life. He had always been isolated from the gelded stock at the CFC, but even at Karpov’s tenament, there were only thirty or forty of them at a time, fighting for scraps, floor space, and filthy blankets. Not just adult cats show up either, but kittens, some so young it takes him a second look to realize what a handful females carry so close to their chests.

Project Insight forces cats all over the country to make a decision: abandon whatever comfort they’ve found as kept pets, or follow the message that Black Panther has spread farther than Bucky could have imagined. A mix of thoroughbreds, PCFs—that is, _Police_ Companion Felines—skittish house cats, and hardened tenement survivors alike appear in groups of two or threes, bringing with them all their unique forms of baggage. Literal, or otherwise. Things grow crowded and tense, no one knows what to do with the gang of unsupervised kits, but there is a subtle understanding that keeps the place running without devolving into chaos. Mostly, Bucky gives credit for the uneasy peace to the massive wall of televisions.

Most cats never have a chance to live with the privilege, and even the pampered house cats become mesmerized when they see feline issues headline every news report and station for the first time in their sheltered lives. Pierce and his minions had probably never expected _Feline-One-One_ to get prematurely canceled, or the absolutely ballistic social response. Bucky happens to be passing through the common area after Spanky’s targeted by Project Insight, and is genuinely impressed that the feline celebrity’s co-stars protest the arrest by refusing to show up for work. In San Francisco, Hope Van Dyne, the first humanoid feline to ever be awarded an honorary doctorate, also manages to fall under Project Insight’s watchful eye. Her mentor and keeper, the prestigious Dr. Hank Pym of the global research and development firm Pym Technologies, starts an all out media war with the California CFC to have her released.

There’s plenty of the same old human bullshit—stories of rising feline aggression, felines picking up weapons, and worse—but there’s enough under all that noise for Bucky to think that there could be quite a few humans who genuinely wish for things to get better for felines, who hate the CFC as much as they do. Some of these allies even show up on Bucky’s first day at the Sanctuary, but leave just as quickly with companion felines who remained collared, despite clearly working with the Movement. That’s another thing Bucky notices quickly—the phrases ‘collared’ or ‘free’ to denote a cat that’s part of the Movement or not. So far, no one seems to see themselves as ‘feral’ regardless of what the licensing laws say.

Bucky’s collar may have been ruined, his license erased, but surely there’s still a record of him as the Winter Soldier, surely some proof remains. If it comes down to it, Steve can have his tag re-issued and that’ll be preferable to the alternative, as far as Bucky’s concerned. Bucky had spent five years as an unlicensed stray, he certainly doesn’t have any intention of going back to that life. If anything, that’s what sets Bucky apart from the others the most, what keeps him solitary even as the others naturally start to find allies in the group, like magnets finding their way home for the first time and snapping into place as if that’s where they’d always belonged.

Even elderly cats appear in groups of two or three, moving slowly around the crowd of younger cats that fill the common area, as if afraid to be noticed by the rowdier youngsters. How old can cats even get? Fifty? Sixty? Bucky has no idea where these ones came from or how to determine their age, but certainly older than any he’s ever met, with deeply lined faces and dashes of white in their fur. Most elderly cats are retired to the CFC when their keepers can no longer care for them. Supposedly, old cats live out whatever years remain after their licenses expire in facilities upstate, until they are ‘retired’ again, this time in whatever the Red Room looks like in those places. After Bucky’s own experience in the Red Room, he can guess.

Bucky covertly watches them from the beanbag chair he claimed nearest the television set, curious about their stiff-jointed movement, their thinning fur, and starts to wonder if he’d ever live long enough to see something like that when he looks in a mirror.

...Would Steve?

Not knowing makes Bucky depressed, so he turns away from the cats gathering in the common area and instead goes back to staring blankly at the television. The news still cycles across the screen, a constant ticker of repeated details as talking heads talk and talk. It amazes Bucky how many humans have all the answers, loudly declaring what cats should do, how they should feel, what they can say, yet none of these professional opinion-havers seem to consider asking any cats these same questions.

_If cats are so innocent, then why are they running away?_

_If cats want to prove that they are grateful to their keepers, then why not give up the location of Black Panther?_

_If cats are so ‘oppressed’ then how could they possibly have the resources to evade the CFC, when all the CFC wants is to help?_

It’s all just noise at the moment, and Bucky can only listen to so much. He isn’t really sure he belongs here, still clinging to his collar, his useless license, only waiting for a sign that he can finally leave in order to check on his human. Relating to the others seems totally beyond him, a waste of effort when he knows he’ll go back to his ‘keeper’ in an instant while these cats have clearly sacrificed everything just to be ‘free’. Bucky feels like he had just been caught up in Tony’s nonsense, and then promptly abandoned as soon as the news broke about Project Insight. He hasn’t seen a damn whisker of that cat since.

Except no, Bucky thinks, reminded of the rooftop conversation the night he’d had to consider running away. This is the war he signed up for, even if he didn’t quite understand it at the time. He and Steve both wanted to stick it out, to learn the players, identify the theater, and to finally piece together what happened ever since Operation Lemurian Star went so horribly wrong.

So now what?

“Hey.”

Bucky checks over his shoulder and finds a cat he doesn’t recognize staring down at him, ears back, fangs out, and puffing up his chest like he’s got something to prove. Bucky barely acknowledges him with even the slightest fold of his own ears, and doesn’t move from where he’s nestled into the beanbag chair.

“So are you him?”

“Who?” Bucky asks, utterly disinterested.

The other cat blows a frustrated chuff through his teeth. There’s nothing all that remarkable about him, and he’s no bigger than any other gelded civilian male, with bland coloring and snarl marred by a severely broken fang. He sports a scar on his throat leftover from what must have been a too-tight collar he’s abandoned. “You are. You’re the Winter Soldier. I saw you on TV.”

Bucky makes a rude sound and goes back to fake-watching the television, dismissing the cat with a flick of his tail.

“You attacked the Panther!” The other cat shouts with a swift kick to Bucky’s bean bag, furious over being ignored. A few of the other nosy felines hover by the television, sensing the tension in the air. So far, Bucky’s ears have taken note of each and every one of them, identifying the potential threats, but none of them seem determined to do more than watch. The silly bastard who thinks the best idea in the world is to pick a fight with a military trained hunter is on his own. Bucky sighs, quietly to himself, so that he doesn’t rub the other cat’s face in how boring this is.

“You got the wrong cat,” Bucky finally tells him. He shifts his weight from the little groove he made for himself in the stuffing to expose the capped stump of his left shoulder. “I’m not fighting anyone.”

“Sure,” the cat says through his teeth, lisping slightly due to the broken fang. “There’s so many cats that look like you running all over DC.” Fang makes the mistake of trying to make his point by nudging Bucky’s tail with the his dirty boot, and that’s enough. Bucky stands, taking his time as the other cat prepares himself for a scrap, then in one fluid movement snatches Fang’s wrist, twists it at just the right angle to immediately drop him to the floor. Bucky lands with one knee on Fang’s neck, the other behind his lifted shoulder, locking up all the joints in Fang’s arm at once. The civilian’s reflexes are so slow that Bucky’s easily pinned him to the floor with almost no effort, and when Fang finally realizes how he wound up there, he dares to snap at Bucky’s shin.

“Don’t,” Bucky tells him, and flexes his wrist to tighten the joint lock he has on the other cat, leaving no room between an argument and a broken wrist.

The idiot finally backs down, quickly dropping his gaze and submitting. “Traitor…”

Fang is dead wrong, and has no idea what’s really going on, but Bucky feels the blunt statement enough to let him get away with it. The worst thing a cat can be is a traitor to other felines, and right now Bucky is surrounded by cats who think he is a collaborator with their sworn enemy. Hydra, a monster behind a human mask, waiting for an infection of fear and hatred to take hold across the world before turning cats also into its vessel. The idea that he’d betray his own people to _that…_ It stings more than Bucky thought it might.

Bucky leaves the idiot cat on the floor and heads out of the common area. He had wanted to keep an eye on all the cats coming in, was waiting to see someone he recognized, but now he thinks he’s better off waiting for Tony in one of the upstairs apartments. At least there he can lock himself away from the judgemental sneers of his kind.

* * *

Sadly, Steve’s had this nightmare many times by now.

Bucky goes completely feral, like an animal, and Steve is forced to keep him caged in his living room or risk the dangerous hunter tearing him to pieces. While he searches desperately around his apartment for a cure, like it’s a set of misplaced keys, Bucky snarls behind the metal bars.

When Steve wakes up, sweating and alone, he still has a lingering sense that he was in the middle of looking for something critical. His hospital room is always lit—heaven forbid the nurses let him sleep in actual darkness—but at least the overheads aren’t on. The curtains are drawn in front of the tiny sliver of the room’s only window, and Steve sluggishly puts together that it must still be dark outside.

He was moved to a standard hospital room four days ago, and by now his surroundings have become depressingly familiar. The small room and even smaller bathroom. The hum of electrical systems in the walls and that one monitor that always beeps if he so much as looks at it funny. The surprisingly large television that seems to be intentionally locked to American Forces Network (but is more than likely just broken.) That one wall covered in placards describing military benefits he knows he’ll never bother taking advantage of. In the shadows thrown by the yellow light, they all look vaguely threatening.

_Alcoholism on active duty: 10 resources to help you quit._

_Medical resources for military families._

_Mental health checklist for combat veterans: what you need to know about PTSD._

The wound on his side is stiff, and takes his breath away when he foolishly tries to move, but it’s the old bite on his forearm that throbs in pain for some reason, like his nightmare reminded him of how close Bucky really came to tearing him apart. Steve uses the remote to raise the head of the hospital bed, then tugs the little wheeled tray over his lap and takes a sip of water from the plastic cup while checking his phone. It’s 0300 hours, but he’s never been more anxious to get the hell out of bed.

By now his parents no longer fretfully stick around until morning, despite the fact that the chair in this room is a slightly-less uncomfortable recliner. His father’s company had been confusing and unhelpful, but it had been nice to listen to his mom’s voice as she read through the news reports coming out of the White House. Private Lorraine must be busy as hell with him forced to stay under guard at Walter Reed, as if it hadn’t been obvious he had only been shot on accident from the assassination attempt on the president.

That thought drives Steve to open his text app for the millionth time, and he looks at the last dozen messages he had sent to Bucky that have gone unanswered. Lorraine has no news, and Natasha seems to have gone dark days ago. Ironically, his best source of information has been Bucky’s own Winter Soldier social media feeds, which people have finally started reaching out to in search of the missing cat. The news media reported on the Winter Soldier’s ‘heroic fight against feline terrorist Black Panther,’ but they quickly moved on to focus on victimizing Steve himself. They probably didn’t account for how well Lorraine did her job, and Bucky is arguably one of the most famous cats in the country, aside from the few odd celebrities like Spanky and Tony Stark.

The whole thing makes the miserable business of being trapped in the hospital worse. He’s worried about Bucky, worried if he’s hurt or lonely or scared, worried about why he helped Panther take that shot while so much had been riding on that goddamn ceremony. Steve hardly had any time to react once he’d put the pieces together, but somehow he’d thought if he managed to shove the president out of the line of fire the Panther would flee. He had no idea how many cats in the audience would be arrested, had no idea he himself would then become the poster child for the president to launch Project Insight.

Steve groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, willing away the headache that bloomed behind his left eye before he gives up and pushes the button for his drip. Headaches aren’t exactly what his prescription is for, but by now his pain has merged into one swirling mass of livewires under every inch of his skin. He may as well deal with it all at once.

The morphine goes to work blessedly fast, and Steve takes in a few deep breaths as the sharp pain in his chest goes fuzzy before finally fading. He took Panther’s shot between his ribs, the .22 caliber round tearing through his left lung before exiting out of his lower back. He apparently spent two hours in the OR, although he doesn’t recall much more than a red, hot painful blur. By now, the wound left by the tiny medical valve used for release pressure on his lung is healing, and he’s anxious to get home.

At least he’s ‘out of the woods’ as far as the doctors are concerned, even though it’ll take six to eight whole goddamn weeks before full recovery. Really, he’s lucky that Black Panther hadn’t used a more powerful rifle, but it’s hard to be grateful after the doctors told him he has to take an additional month off from visiting the gym. Steve fights off the familiar wave of depression at the thought, a sensation not unlike keeping his head above icy water as the darkness threatens to pull him under. He had only just started getting back to the gym with Sam, and even though there are so, _so_ many more things to worry about, the possibility of damaging that friendship further hurts in ways the damn bullet wound never could.

Steve turns his face into his pillow and takes a few more deep breaths, now that the ache has started to recede. He reminds himself that he gets to leave first thing in the morning, depending on how this final night of observation goes. The Secret Service are still posted outside his room, but aside from seeing the corner of their broad shoulders through the door when the doctors come in and out, they haven’t made themselves known. Steve figures it’s just for show, as his very own office continues to spin the PR to amp up the drama that the Wakanda Movement had kicked off.

Project Insight has already lead to mass arrests, suspending civilian feline licenses and emptying out the semi-legal tenaments in urban hubs like New York and San Francisco. Even military felines are on some kind of lockdown as the quartermaster investigates any possible connection between their ranks and Panther’s organization. It’s hard to imagine, and even Bucky said military cats would know better, but Steve can’t help but feel like any SCF involved would be treated so much more harshly than the civilian cats currently being rounded up by the hundreds. Despite the office of the Joint Chiefs praising Bucky’s heroism, the Winter Soldier program has been put on hold, indefinitely.

Steve has no idea what his life is going to look like after he gets out of the hospital, but all he can really focus on is finding Bucky. Nothing will make sense until they can talk about it, until they can plan for what happens next. Steve can’t think about that though, not with the painkillers flooding his system and drowsiness tugging him back under. He’s not sure if he’d actually managed to fall asleep again before his room’s door bangs open, and he blinks through his confusion when Natasha tells him it’s time to go.

“What?” He asks, groggy and half-blind after the overhead lights flood the room. “Now? Where? _Now?_ ”

“Look at you,” Natasha says with a smirk, as she parks a wheelchair next to his bedside. She’s dressed like an RN in dark green scrubs and white sneakers, her hair up in a messy bun. “Asking those hard hitting questions.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue, but then groans as he forces his drugged, injured body out of bed to the tune of that one damn monitor’s alarm when it’s suddenly disconnected before Natasha flicks it off for good. Steve tries to be quiet, worried about the Secret Service right outside the door, then all but collapses into the wheelchair about as elegantly as a kicking bull.

“Easy there, soldier,” Natasha clucks under her breath. Steve’s only wearing a hospital gown and thick socks, but when Natasha drops a hoodie and some slippers into his lap he realizes she’s intent on leaving the hospital.

“Secret Service,” Steve wheezes out, a little sad to see the IV go when Natasha pulls the needle from the top of his hand. He clenches his fist, trying to get the feeling back in his arm after keeping it still at his side for so long, then points to the door. “Guards.”

“They’ll be fine,” Natasha explains. Before that can sink in, he spots the agents unconscious on the floor as she wheels him out, one slumped over the back of a chair, the other crumpled next to the baseboards like a pile of laundry.

Steve doesn’t comment. Assaulting the Secret Service is ballsy, even for someone as slippery as Natasha, but his trust in her doesn’t falter. All he can do is pay close attention and be ready to act strategically, following her lead for wherever she’s taking him.

“The president was not going to just let you walk out of here,” she explains. “In a few hours, you were going to be taken for questioning, and Pierce would’ve-”

“Is Bucky okay?” Steve asks immediately, still adjusting under his blanket as they pass an orderly in the hall. “Where is he?” Natasha makes a small sound that could have been annoyed or amused.

“He’s fine. Mostly. I’m taking you to him.” Natasha explains curtly, then murmurs under her breath. “The both of you, I swear...”

Steve is distracted, worrying about being stopped before they can escape the hospital, worrying about Natasha’s use of the word ‘mostly’, and doesn’t realize she’s called the elevator until it dings loudly, doors sliding apart ahead of him. He drops his slippered feet to the floor, forcing the wheelchair to abruptly hitch in Natasha’s grasp, and in an instant her arm is extended, glock aimed into the empty car. “What? Why did we stop?”

“Elevator,” Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath, and not just because of his injury. He hasn’t been out of his hospital room in days and panic goes off like fireworks under his skin. “It’s- It’s just that I can’t…” It’s awful but he can take it, right? He needs to get out of here, needs to get to Bucky. Taking the stairs would be unthinkably hard, and it’s not like he hasn’t just sucked it up before. Why is it suddenly so much harder…? Steve already misses his drip. “It’s fine. Sorry.”

Natasha’s weapon disappears and Steve holds his breath the whole way down to the ground floor. She turns down the main hallway, past a Starbucks and a darkened gift shop with shelves packed by religious figurines and balloons with cartoon faces. It’s busy in the hospital’s main thoroughfare, even at this hour, but mostly with night staff that are hardly interested in just another nurse and patient, and cats making the rounds with their janitor carts. No one pays them much attention. They make it all the way to the front entrance, through one set of the hospital’s double doors, before someone approaches. Steve wants to laugh when he sees who it is.

Natasha stops the wheelchair short as the automatic doors slide shut behind them. This time her gun remains hidden wherever it is under her scrubs. “Agent Ward.”

“Romanoff!” The man Steve served with during Operation Lemurian Star flashes him a quick smile of recognition but doesn’t greet him. Ward was always handsome, but now there’s something odd about the chiseled lines of his face, everything a little too perfect, almost plastic. Steve is caught off guard by how smooth his voice is when he continues. “I was worried about how things were going. Coulson sent me in as backup.”

“Did he now?” Natasha asks, all innocence as she steps out from behind Steve’s wheelchair. “I assume he brought you up to speed on Operation Night Light?”

“Of course,” Ward says, waving his hand urgently for them to both come along. “Retrieve Captain Rogers and bring him to the safe house.”

Ward’s body language is on high alert, looking back over Natasha’s shoulder as if he’s an ally looking out for incoming hostiles, but there’s something entirely wrong about how he avoids eye contact with Steve altogether. Steve knew this man, they fought side-by-side, didn’t they? It seems odd that the smug piece of work he teamed up with on Sakhalin could avoid making a comment about him being wheelchair bound and sporting a week-old beard.

“Now, would you hurry up? I’m sure the security guards are wondering-”

Natasha ducks under his weapon, drawn so fast Steve barely saw the motion, then rams her elbow into his diaphragm with a hard _thwack!_ Ward sucks wind, Natasha pivots behind him, then throws him bodily over her shoulder. With one arm still struggling against her grip, Ward gets off two shots, and one wall of the hospital’s vestibule shatters. Natasha breaks his wrist in response, the gun drops from his limp fingers into Natasha’s waiting hand, and she fires a round point blank into the struggling man’s temple.

A starburst of blood splatters the linoleum floor behind his ear and he goes still.

“Holy shit...” Steve gusts out, too exhausted to manage more than that. It all happened in two seconds, three tops, and Natasha has already tucked Ward’s gun away when something even worse happens: Ward’s corpse starts to move.

Steve has seen dead bodies before, has been responsible for quite a few of them himself. People don’t always die like they do in the movies, with a dramatic last gasp before they crumple. Violent deaths send electrical signals in every direction, making the dead kick awkwardly or flail in the air for a few seconds, even when missing entire pieces of their bodies. Ward, however, doesn’t move like anything Steve’s ever seen. His body writhes like his skin can barely contain a mass of slithering eels, and tumbles towards them in a rolling boil across the floor with dead eyes gaping up towards the ceiling.

“Holy _shit_!” Steve cries out, and the hospital’s alarms start to sound.

“Can you run?” Natasha checks in. She shoots Ward again but the bullets don’t seem to do anything to slow the thing down. They need options.

“If I have to,” Steve says, boldly enough that he almost believes it.

Before he can attempt to struggle out of the chair, a snarling cat barrels past them. It’s wearing coveralls, armed with nothing but a plastic broom handle, and when it lands on Ward’s twisted corpse it collapses ungracefully onto all fours. It’s not trained like the cats Steve’s worked with, not a fighter, not even very large, but Ward’s wrongly animated limbs seem to flail in distress when the cat sinks his fangs into Ward’s twisted neck. Ward’s legs curl and contract with the sound of snapping bones, and twist up between himself and the cat to dislodge it. The cat snarls, lets out a fierce growl, then flings his entire weight around and they both go tumbling out of the broken window onto the hospital’s narrow strip of landscaping.

“Hold on!” Natasha tells him, and lunges forward, pushing the wheelchair onto the sidewalk at a sprint, then steers it on the edge of one wheel towards the garage. “Keep holding!”

“I’m _holding_ , I’m _holding_!” Steve yells back, because what the fuck else could he possibly be doing while Natasha’s performing wheelies with his goddamn _life_? Behind them, Steve hears the feline janitor _yeowl_ in pain, quickly followed by an inhuman wail that sets his teeth on edge.

Natasha tilts the chair back even further and they practically fly off a curb, around the gap between the barrier arm and the machine that accepts credit cards. The garage is well lit but mostly empty in the frigid, early morning, and Steve spots the black SUV the moment it lurches around the corner. Natasha digs her heels in and brings the chair to a stop as the passenger door opens in front of them, to reveal her scruffy SCF at the wheel. “You always need to make an exit, Nat?” He says, while waving them aboard.

Natasha ignores Clinton, throws open the back door, and kicks the wheel locks on Steve’s chair to keep it steady. “Up you go, big guy,” she urges.

Steve gives it all he’s got, surges up with just enough force to stumble forward, and grabs ahold of the interior handle above the door. He shouts wordlessly, hauling his bulk into the seat while Natasha hoists him up from behind. The staples holding his exit wound closed bite, sharp teeth tugging at his skin, as if he’s attached to the chair by a string that isn’t letting go. The patched hole in the front of his chest from his recently removed release valve burns. He clicks into his seatbelt gasping for breath, and Natasha takes shotgun.

“Ward?” Steve gets out between heaving breaths. “How did- How did you know?”

“There is no Operation Night Light,” Natasha explains as Clinton throws the SUV into reverse, then adds, “Let’s call this particular mission, ‘off the books’.”

The tires shriek against the asphalt driveway, the SUV throws its massive weight around in a perfect one-hundred-and-eighty degree skid, then lunges forward as Clinton floors the gas pedal. The garage’s barrier arm snaps like a bird bone against the SUV’s beastly grille, and they leap out onto the street just as half a dozen Secret Service vehicles screech to a halt, red and blue lights flashing in the dark windshields. Escape routes blocked, agents already drawing side arms, Steve scans for a quick way out before he suddenly notices the feline janitor again.

Horrified, Steve watches two agents turn their guns towards the clueless cat, only now picking himself up from Ward’s ruined form. The feline seems bewildered by what just happened, and freezes the moment he spots the armed humans. He clearly doesn’t understand their orders to drop his ‘weapon’—still nothing more than a plastic broom handle—and raise his arms.

“We have to ram them!” Steve knows it’s the only way to break through a barricade, targeting the back half of a vehicle in order to force a spin out on its front wheels. He didn’t survive five tours of duty in Russia without picking up a thing or two about convoy operations.

“Not yet,” Natasha tells him, and Clinton lays on the horn to pull their attention away from the janitor, who finally turns and flees the moment the agents look away. Gunfire erupts in crackling pops of light against the dark street and Steve ducks, expecting the nine millimeter rounds to tear through their vehicle. Instead, the bullets thud against the SUV, no more than dense raindrops against apparently full armor plating. Natasha looks over her shoulder and gives Steve a smile, not one of her sly smiles but a full on manic grin that Steve suspects is for once, entirely natural. “Why do you think they call us SHIELD?”

“Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division!” Steve wheezes out, keeping a hand clapped firmly over the tender wound in his chest when the SUV lunges forward and he’s thrown back against his seat.

“Hm,” Clinton mumbles, and forces the heavy vehicle to jump the curb, bypassing the street altogether, then swerves back into the asphalt past the Secret Service barricade. The agents keep firing, barely scratching the tempered glass. “I always forget what comes after _Intervention_.”

“Sure you do,” Steve coughs, and Natasha actually laughs as they charge towards an intersection and a red light. Two more Secret Service vehicles—conveniently late to the party—converge into the same intersection, and Clinton runs it, forcing them to a screeching halt to avoid a devastating collision. Clinton takes the next turn down a darkened street, blessedly free from any more Secret Service, but Steve isn’t convinced they’ve just given up. Their SUV charges up Vermont, the treeline to their left dividing the street from Bayshore freeway on the other side. To the right are the darkened back sides of industrial buildings.

“Here’s our stop,” Clinton warns, then stomps on the breaks and turns the wheel. The SUV drifts into a covered loading dock, slotting in beside a dumpster with pinpoint precision, while Steve keeps a death grip on his seat belt and fights the g-force.

Natasha is first out of the SUV, leaping to the parked sedan beside them and throwing open the driver’s side before Clinton makes his way around. “They’ve already set up plainclothes checkpoints,” Natasha quickly explains, as Clinton helps Steve out of the SUV. The cat is stronger than he looks, which is a relief since Steve has to lean nearly all his weight onto his shoulder. “We need to get you out of the perimeter before-”

“Agent Romanoff!” Someone shouts, and Steve swears under his breath.

Emerging from the back of the warehouse at an easy saunter is Agent Sitwell, following the concrete path that wraps around the recessed loading dock. The stocky Secret Service agent looks smug when he steps into the yellow light of the street lamps, Brock stalking forward at his heel. He flashes his fangs when Clinton lays down his ears.

“Agent Ward warned me you might try something like this,” Sitwell says, apparently unconcerned that Natasha already has her glock trained on him.

Steve feels naked without a weapon, like he sauntered into a warzone in his pajamas, but he already knows it wouldn’t have helped. He glances up at Brock, and the dark pools of the hunter’s eyes return the incandescence of their own headlights. Sitwell has the high ground, but it’s definitely Brock Steve’s worried about, probably enough of a threat by himself to kill both Steve and Natasha, depending on whatever Natasha’s SCF is capable of.

“Funny you should mention him,” Natasha says with a casual smile while the point of her pistol continues to follow Sitwell as he gets closer. “Grant Ward is no longer with SHIELD, I’m afraid.”

Sitwell shrugs. “He got close enough.” He stops at the edge of the path, now just on the other side of the sedan. “I want you to surrender Captain Rogers. For his protection,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “This… kidnapping is going to end badly for you.”

“Kidnapping, huh?” Natasha says, unblinking. “That sound right to you, Captain Rogers?”

“No ma’am,” Steve manages, subtly shifting his weight to the roof of the car rather than Clinton’s shoulder. “Far as I’m concerned, everything’s five-by-five.”

“Hear that, Agent Sitwell?” Natasha asks lightly. “Five-by-five.”

“Come on, Rogers,” Sitwell sneers, keeping one eye on Natasha’s pistol as he predictably rants. “I read about you. The war hero. Born and bred Army officer. You took an oath, to serve at the pleasure. Treason doesn’t exactly seem like your style.”

“Well,” Steve sighs. “Neither is all this spy stuff, but I think I did a pretty good job distracting you.”

Sitwell blinks, only just now realizing Clinton had taken a step back. “What?”

In one, fluid movement, Clinton is airborne. Brock lunges forward, clearing the gap to the hood of the car, but Clinton goes high, instead aiming for Sitwell, who stumbles backward in surprise. Natasha drops to the ground, taking Steve down with her as Brock sails over their heads. Brock lands on the hood of the SUV and whips around with a snarl. When Natasha’s pistol comes back up, Steve experiences a split second of grief for the doomed cat, only Natasha doesn’t fire.

The heavy, scarred hunter is still on all fours, both hands clutching the edge of the SUV’s wide roof, but his ears have come up in shock and his eyes are the size of dinner plates as he stares, frozen. The sound of Clinton’s snarl is chased immediately by a sudden, desperate screech of something inhuman, and Steve can almost feel the ground drop out under him as memories of the fucking hole come flooding back.

Somehow, Steve finds the strength to get to his feet, even though he has to claw at the side of the sedan to get a view of the fight. He only watches for a few seconds before Natasha yanks him back down, but the wild thrashing of another Zola-creature is unmistakable, wearing what’s left of Sitwell’s skin like an ill-fitting jacket.

Luckily, Clinton is far better trained than the hospital’s janitor, and manages to evade the long, glossy tendrils that jut from Sitwell’s cracked face. The cat leaps with grace and power, striking swiftly with his bared fangs, then twisting away before Sitwell can counter. The agent’s clothes start to bulge, swelling like a boil until more tentacles tear free and slap wetly against the concrete, before Clinton takes another bite out of them.

“Brock!” The thing howls, “Do your job and kill this damn animal!” but Brock only flinches as if struck. Whatever Sitwell is, whatever he became, has a voice that is not so much a voice but a collection of several voices, of _every_ voice, ever-changing as the lurid mass of it writhes under shreds of human skin. Steve wants to cover his ears against the horrible sound of it. “Kill this damn animal! That’s an order!”

“I…” Brock gulps so hard his collar shifts against his Adam's apple as he clearly considers it. “Sir, what are-”

The deep thunder of Clinton’s roar tears through the night so loudly Steve feels it in his chest, and Sitwell responds with a screech like an iron vault coming unhinged. Steve should get up, should find a weapon and help. Instead he is taking cover, useless, confused by this repeat horror. Sitwell must have been infected sometime after Steve last saw him, or else Bucky surely would have torn him to shreds. What does that mean for Brock, who was completely taken by surprise, even while Clinton clearly recognized this thing himself?

One of the glistening tendrils sails out over their heads and strikes the side of the SUV, thrown there after Clinton was done with it, and Brock lifts his hand up and away from where it landed in disgust. It releases noxious gas with a hiss before bubbles rise out of the torn flesh. It blackens as they watch, like vegetables instantly succumbing to weeks of putrid rot. Brock gags, and Steve covers his mouth. It smells like a corpse, and looks just like the thing Bucky pulled out of Steve’s own neck. It’s even more horrific, knowing there are so many more where that came from.

“Ungrateful animal!” Sitwell’s heinous voice ripples out above Clinton’s fierce snarling, a sound that grates against the nerves and makes Steve feel slightly sick to his stomach. “We should have killed you all! You don’t deserve our mercy! You don’t deserve—” His words turn into a violent retching noise, then a long, slow gurgle claws its way out of what’s left of his throat.

No one moves for what feels like a long time, and no one utters a word, Clinton’s ragged breathing the only sound that passes between them. The horror they just experienced, the sight of this thing that couldn’t possibly exist, even the sound of it, leaves a palpable tinge between them, like ozone in the air after a lightning strike.

“You _killed_ him.” Brock grinds out, breaking the spell.

“Fuck!” Clinton says, and spits. “I hope so!”

Natasha holsters her pistol, apparently not at all concerned about Brock anymore, and opens the sedan’s back door. “Get in.”

Steve’s adrenaline is plummeting, so he climbs in before he isn’t able to move anymore, but stops the door before she closes it. “Wait.”

“No time,” Natasha tells him bluntly, and motions towards the street. In the distance Steve can hear sirens approaching, indicating that this is likely their last chance to escape.

“Brock,” Steve says, ignoring her concern, and Brock startles back at the sound of his name, as if he’d forgot the others were still there. “They are just as likely to kill you as they are to believe you,” Steve explains, and points back to where Clinton must have left whatever remained of Sitwell. “You should come with us.”

For a second Brock seems too stunned to answer, then he spits out a defensive, “Fuck you, _sir_. I ain’t a traitor. They’ll debrief me and I’ll tell ‘em everything.”

Steve nods, understanding. Brock isn’t ready, and Steve can’t convince him if he isn’t willing to see the truth. Natasha drops into the driver’s side this time, and pulls on a ratty gray hoodie, covering her bright red hair before she starts the car. Clinton yanks a purple beanie over his ears and fastens his seatbelt, still breathing hard.

“Good luck,” Steve tells Brock as they pull out onto the street, but Brock doesn’t answer. Instead he crouches low on the roof of the SUV, and refuses to look at him.

Once they finally make it onto Bayshore, Natasha breaks the long silence with her quiet words. “You can’t save them all, you know. Bucky wouldn’t even want you to.”

“But I do,” Steve admits, and catches Clinton eyeing him through the rearview mirror. “And I’m not going to stop trying.”

Natasha matches the speed of what little traffic cuts through the early morning. They make their way out of the neighborhood, leaving the stubborn old hunter behind with the thing that used to be Agent Sitwell.

* * *

It’s nearly 0400 hours and Bucky can’t sleep. He had managed to take a couple cat naps, but doesn’t feel any more rested for it. Anxiety creeps over him, a giant hand rubbing all his fur against the grain and it keeps him awake. He tries to pace, but he’s out of practice quadding— _tri-podding?_ —with his missing arm, and his broken rib grinds uncomfortably when he tries. Pacing upright just feels unnatural.

Bucky plods downstairs, hoping for some solitary stalking, but somehow he’d forgotten he was in a building full of fellow anxious felines, who are just as likely to be up as they are to be asleep. Reflective eyes all flash toward him the moment he walks into the dark media center, the kitchen, even the gym, quiet conversation dying the moment they recognize him. He escapes to the frigid outdoors, and since he doesn’t dare walk onto the street without his license, he winds up circling the the courtyard’s overgrown landscaping. It’s cold enough that Bucky snagged a coat before going outside, and he pulls up the hood once snowflakes start to tickle the tips of his ears.

The courtyard catches just enough wind to keep the tall, dense weeds rustling, and even through his hood he can hear the skittering of small animals—probably rats—dashing around on their own nighttime errands. Bucky drops down to his haunches, the grass towering over his head, and pulls his hood back just far enough to uncover his ears. While he follows the animals’ noisy journey through the untamed garden, he wonders what concerns this urban wildlife might actually have. Do they have to worry about food in this patch of neglected shrubs? Do they brave the dangers of the street to forage for the garbage that humans leave behind? Fight for territory?

Bucky’s tail curls around his ankles, the tip rising and falling as he simply observes the animal life around him. How much easier would things be if humanoid felines were more like them? How much more straightforward would it be to live in a human world, if they weren’t able to think and speak and wish for greater things? According to T’Challa and the others, it took only two or three short generations of these hydra creatures controlling the narrative for felines’ place by the humans’ side to become a place beneath their feet. If that’s how easy it was, if that’s all it took, then maybe it’s where cats belong to begin with. Maybe it was a mistake of nature to allow two sentient species to evolve on one planet in the first place, one planet that cannot be split evenly between them.

Bucky doesn’t know how long rats have lived in this tall grass, but figures they’ve been in this neighborhood for a long, long time, thriving on human neglect. He catches the sound of a newcomer, a gentle padding, a slight shift of dry grass, and the swish of a long tail cuts through in a direct trajectory towards one of the small scurrying rodents. As soon as he hears the violent squeak he knows what it must be. A mundane cat, skinny and mean, slinks out of the grass on its belly, dragging a dead rat in his mouth. The rat is rigid, unmoving in the cat’s fangs, but still alive. The cat pauses after catching sight of Bucky, sitting there as a witness, then dashes into the darkness of the stairwell that leads to the garage without giving him another look.

Well. Good for him.

Bucky walks another circle around the courtyard, in and out of the covered walkway beneath the main floor, then stops suddenly when he hears the garage gate grind open. More newcomers. They’d been trickling in, mostly in the middle of the night, and by now Bucky has learned to just avoid them all. Seems like he should head back to his room before this group makes their way up, and Bucky has his hand on the security door handle before he hears a familiar voice. Clinton? Bucky isn’t sure what to think of that scruffy SCF, but at least he can finally have an ally among the rest of the judgemental assholes if Clinton stays.

“Tony will be back in DC later this morning,” comes Natasha’s voice. “We can let you rest here, and we can work on our strategy.” She pauses, and Bucky hears her grunt under a heavy weight.

Finally, a third voice, out of breath but instantly familiar says, “And Bucky is here?”

...Steve?

Bucky dashes forward, cuts through the overgrown bushes, then lands on his face after clearing the other side. Damn missing arm! He scrambles upright, and sprints the rest of the way to the garage steps. Steve isn’t looking up, concentrating instead on putting one foot in front of the other, but Natasha lets out a quiet, “Ah. Speak of the devil.”

The beard is the first thing Bucky notices. Even on Sakhalin, Steve always kept himself well groomed, carrying a field shaving kit with him on long deployments off base. Bucky is pretty sure he’s never even seen him with facial hair before, and somehow it shows just how hurt Steve really is. He’s also not dressed nearly warm enough to be out in the snow, only wearing a hoodie pulled over a trailing hospital gown and—are those _slippers_? Bucky can’t decide if he should run to his human or scold him for being outside without any pants, and the inner conflict paralyzes him at the top of the stairs long enough for Steve to finally look up. He blinks several times, his round, human eyes adjusting to the darkness. A tired smile lights up his face, but his eyes scrunch up, like he’s in pain.

“...Oh.”

Bucky runs to him. Steve nearly collapses over Bucky’s shoulders after he tries to take a weak step halfway up the stairs, and grunts desperately as Bucky bunts the top of his head right into Steve’s neck and rubs his ears luxuriously in Steve’s bristly whiskers. It feels so nice that Bucky instantly decides Steve isn’t allowed to shave any time soon.

“Hey, pal,” Steve says, voice hoarse with emotion or maybe pain. It’s awkward, Bucky’s chest is tight, rib aching, they are staggered across too many steps, and Steve is too heavy where he’s draped both arms over Bucky’s lopsided shoulders. Steve smells terrible and _delicious_. He huffs out a laugh. “Did you miss me?”

“Punk,” Bucky blurts out, then pushes his head so hard under Steve’s chin that the top of his skull _clonks_ against Steve’s jaw. Whatever control he had on his purring has evaporated, but he hardly cares that Clinton and Natasha can hear the deep vibration as it tumbles out of his chest. “You’re _such_ a damn punk.”

Steve isn’t allowed to shave, or get hurt, or leave his side ever again.

“I hate to interrupt,” Natasha starts, ending Bucky’s happy purr. “We should get Captain Rogers inside. Might be _humana non grata_ around here.”

“Well. That’ll be a nice change of pace,” Steve murmurs. He lets Bucky help him the rest of the way up the steps, then across the courtyard, skirting around the wild garden.

It’s slow going, and when they get through the security door Bucky can practically feel the curious eyes on them, the bitter glares. He has to lay his ears back and show his teeth to the few who look as if they might be considering more than just watching, but he still catches the odd murmur of, ‘That human…’ and ‘traitor.’ He hopes Steve doesn’t pick up on their hostility as they cross through the common areas. Poor guy clearly has a hard enough time just walking on his own two feet, panting and sweating like he just ran a mile. Bucky’s aware again of how injured Steve must be by the amount of weight he allows Bucky to take, and the fact that Steve only barely stiffens around the shoulders when Bucky puts them both in the elevator.

Clinton and Natasha follow them at an unobtrusive distance, and Bucky figures that’s fine for now. He has plenty of questions for them, so they may as well join him in the apartment he’s staked out. The cats in the sanctuary have mostly claimed apartments by scent, and Bucky’s door isn’t even numbered, swinging freely open with a nudge.

“No locks?” Steve asks, as they pass through the small apartment.

“I thought that was strange too,” Bucky admits. Tony is a fool to think cats wouldn’t steal from each other, especially ones used to the cutthroat competition in the tenements. Bucky arrived here with nothing to steal, but it’d be a terrible mistake if any of these cats dared to step into his territory after he marked it so clearly.

The apartment isn’t huge, more or less like a hotel suite with a hot plate, but comfortably furnished with low bean bag chairs, cushions, and a low common table in the center of what could pass for a living room, if it had any walls. The apartment’s only bed is round, with a deep cushioned mattress, and only one fluffy blanket. Bucky realizes as soon as he eases Steve down to it that there are no pillows, and the one blanket might not be enough for his shivering human. Bucky pulls off Steve’s filthy slippers, but leaves his socks on, worried about the chill.

“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve sighs out, already closing his eyes as he curls stiffly on one side. “Don’t need anything else. Just… just glad you’re here. Can’t believe I almost lost you again. Can’t believe I almost let them take you.”

Bucky doesn’t have a response to that right away. Steve has reached up to stroke his cheek, and Bucky can’t resist pressing into Steve’s hand to inhale the familiar scent, then licks Steve’s palm. “I’m okay,” Bucky finally answers. “I’m fine. I’m here.”

“Bucky, your _arm_ is missing,” Steve scolds him with a brief flicker of energy, and continues the stroke down the side of Bucky’s neck to gently cup the patch covering Bucky’s implant. “You wound up in that place, and they wouldn’t tell me anything. It was like Sakhalin, all over again.”

“Well. _Most_ of me is here,” Bucky amends, and Steve laughs, winces in pain, and grabs his side with a groan. “Sorry.”

“God, I love you,” Steve whispers, and closes his eyes.

“Prove it by never doing something stupid like that ever again,” Bucky mutters, but Steve is already drifting, too injured and too exhausted to fight back. Bucky brushes some of the longer hair away from his sweaty forehead, pulls the blanket all the way up to his chin, and slips off the bed. Whatever Steve has been through has turned Bucky’s strong captain into a limp noodle, but at least his usual stubbornness is powerless against the much needed bedrest.

Clinton has made himself comfortable in one of the bean bag chairs, while Natasha still eyes a free one coolly, as if she doesn’t understand how one might mount such an undignified piece furniture. She elects to sit cross legged on the floor when Bucky approaches, apparently waiting for him to choose when to bring her into his otherwise private moment.

Clinton’s ears stand up when Bucky settles down opposite them, and Bucky spots the purple bands that help him hear. It’s amazing to think there can be an active SCF that could be so disabled. Bucky isn’t sure what he’d do if he lost his arm _and_ his hearing. Bucky’s face still stings from where he bashed it into the concrete earlier.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, and means it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going after him?”

“Because you couldn’t have helped,” Natasha tells him, blunt in a way most Americans are not. “And we weren’t sure if we’d succeed. Also, we didn’t bring him here for you, we just needed to get him out of the president’s hands. This sanctuary might be the only location in the state he can’t be traced to.”

Bucky gets it, she’s trying to make it clear she’s not being sentimental. All business. Still, Tony’s sanctuary isn’t without danger. “So maybe you didn’t hear the other ferals around this place-”

“I heard them,” she says. “It’s better that they don’t trust you. Either of you. Easier for you to pull off what comes next.”

There it is. Bucky frowns, trying to control his tail as it curls up beside him. “Alright,” he starts, stronger now that he knows Steve is safe, finally regaining a sense of mission preparedness he knew so well, back when he was a real SCF. “So. How are we going to stop hydra?”

* * *

Steve wakes up with his jaw aching, like he’s been stress clenching all night. It takes a while for his wild morning to come back to him, filtered through the haze of terrible sleep and a flare of pain in his chest. He flexes his fingers first, trying to shake off the sleep-paralysis, then his toes, and when the mattress shifts beside him his eyes fly open.

“Bucky,” Steve gasps, and the pain is nothing compared to the instant relief. “My god, jesus fuck.”

Bucky’s ears leap up in alarm at all the uncontrolled swearing before he smiles, his sleep tousled hair hanging in front of his eyes as he gazes down. The shades are drawn, but through the dim light Bucky practically glows.

Steve reaches up just to touch him, just to make sure Bucky is actually there, close enough to put his hands on, and hasn’t be ripped from his side again. Bucky accepts the touch by turning his face into Steve’s palm then inhaling deeply, an intimate touch Bucky can’t seem to resist. Steve feels the rough tip of Bucky’s barbed tongue tasting him there and a giggle rises up at the sweet sensation. “Oh, Bucky...”

Bucky pulls back, tongue caught between his lips in a disgusted blep, before he blurts out, “You smell so bad.”

Laughing hurts, but it’s worth it, because otherwise Steve might have cried like a sap. He feels fragile as glass, barely able to move, but never so alive. They’re alive, not quite in one piece but close enough, and together in this strange, round bed.

“Tony built this place,” Bucky explains, following Steve’s gaze around the mini apartment’s wide-open floor plan. The bed they’re on is in a nook, raised off the floor by several steps, giving them a high vantage point of the whole place. “It’s for cats.”

That explains the furniture, Steve thinks. He tries to move but everything hurts, and he just winds up groaning again. “Damn punctured lung,” he hisses.

“Don’t get up,” Bucky tells him, pushing him back down. He spreads the blanket flat over him, tucking him in like there’s no negotiation over the subject. Bucky is already dressed in jeans and thick socks, a dark blue henley with the left arm knotted up close to the shoulder. Everything about him looks soft. Steve is warm and weak, but wishes at least one arm was free from the blanket so that he could touch Bucky’s tail. It’s curled in an inviting loop over Bucky’s lap, the tip wriggling between them.

“I can explain from here,” Bucky continues. “Then I’ll get you some breakfast.”

Breakfast sounds good. “Explain what?”

Bucky heaves out a sigh, winces and holds his side. “Damn broken rib,” he mutters with a tired smile, and adjusts his position next to Steve.

“I met Black Panther. There’s two of them, a brother and sister. They explained the Wakanda Movement. Natasha and Tony were there, too. They all came up with a plan, but… It kind of depends on you.” Bucky’s tail twitches. He’s clearly nervous, afraid of what Steve might say. By now, Steve can imagine what it is Bucky needs to ask, and preempts him with what Steve’s been rehearsing in his head since he first woke up in the hospital.

“As soon as I saw you spotting for a sniper, I realized the president must have known about the assassination attempt. I figured, if he knew then he was effectively planning it himself, and anything he could be planning couldn’t be good.” Steve stares at Bucky’s tail when he explains, because nothing about that horrible night at the Nobel Prize Ceremony should have happened. They should have been more prepared, and Steve hasn’t forgotten that Bucky warned him at the last minute that something bad was going to happen. When is he going to learn?

Bucky glances away, his ears making an uncertain swivel. “But why did you save him? Why wouldn’t you just let him get shot, even if the plan wouldn’t have worked?”

Steve is prepared for this question, too. “Those things don’t die when you shoot them, and whatever Pierce was planning would have just made things worse. Maybe he would have feigned some kind of injury, just to make it look good for the press.” Steve doesn’t think about how that ‘press’ would have come out of the J5 Directorate. “The Secret Service were so fast pulling him off that stage, they must have been briefed in advanced to hide him as soon as it happened. I thought if I made a big enough ruckus, the Panther would know it was a trap. I didn’t know about the others...”

Steve isn’t sure if he should ask Bucky what he knew about the Wakanda Movement’s plans, if he had any warning that it wasn’t just a single agent operating alone, but a whole, planned insurgency at the event.

“But…” Bucky’s voice goes dark. “You almost died protecting that son of a-”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t mean to get _shot!_ ” Steve croaks out. Any suspicion at all that Steve could still harbor some lingering loyalty to President Pierce, some toxic influence remaining after Bucky removed that thing from Steve’s neck, is most likely just an intrusive thought, but one that terrifies him. Steve tells himself that there’s no way he put his life on the line intentionally to save Pierce. He _hadn’t._

“Well, you’re an idiot!” Bucky snaps back. Steve gulps down a retort, because Bucky’s eyes are sparkling in the dim light and his ears are flattened by fear. So, Bucky doesn’t actually think that Steve might still be corrupted. He’s just worried about Steve getting hurt. Bucky loves him, but is still instinctually territorial of him, has claimed Steve as his own, the human that he is meant to protect regardless of what the military or even Steve himself says. His _mate_. Steve’s heart thumps in his chest at the thought, and he clears his throat.

“Weren’t you going to tell me something about a plan?” Steve puffs out, because he’s well aware of how fucking stupid it was and he doesn’t want to think about how much pain he’s caused Bucky because of it.

Bucky shows his fangs like he wants to argue, but then his tail gives the top of the blanket a frustrated thump and he moves on. “According to the White House press corps, you’ve been kidnapped by the Wakanda Movement. We’re going to use my social media account to share a message…”

Steve swallows. “Whose plan is this? Natasha’s?”

“And Tony’s, T’Challa’s.”

That’s a name he hasn’t heard before. “Tah...Challa?”

“T’Challa,” Bucky repeats, emphasizing the hard T. “And Shuri. The Black Panthers. They’re pair-bonded twins and… they have interesting things to say.”

Bucky’s whole posture changes, his chest comes up and his ears stand up, and Steve can practically see him swelling with pride. “Hydra is… well, it’s like… Shuri explained it better than I could. They infect humans—only humans—and those humans eventually get taken over. They don’t know if it’s one organism, with lots of puppets, or if it’s individuals that think for themselves. They work without loyalty to countries, all on the same side.” Bucky swallows, and touches his throat, and Steve suddenly notices the missing collar. “They hate us because we’re immune, but they’ve been trying to find a way to neutralize our defense against them. That’s what Zola had been researching on Sakhalin and Lukin perfected at the CFC through his… experiments.”

Steve tries to digest what Bucky says. It’s unbelievable, something out of a horror movie, but it all makes a shocking amount of sense. Zola’s laptop, those Russian SCFs, everything that’s happened to them since. Bucky puts the pieces together as clearly as a debrief, filling in what Steve had missed after he got shot and answering his questions before he even has to ask.

Bucky only starts to struggle when he attempts to actually explain Lukin’s experiments; the seemingly endless trials that apparently never worked on him, and brought him nothing but more and more pain as Lukin lost his patience. Bucky figures that the experiments failed since he had already been exposed to Zola on Sakhalin, had fought off Steve’s infection when they were trapped together underground. Steve doesn’t interrupt, even when Bucky quietly admits to when he’d had enough, to why he eventually made the choice to end the experiments on his own by transferring to the Red Room. It’s painful to hear about this waking nightmare of Bucky’s life, but if Bucky can suffer that much then Steve can listen to him, can be there as the cat lets it all out. Bucky clearly needs this, needs to share the most broken piece of his life with Steve, trusting his human to put him back together again in a way that feels right.

Still, Steve makes a silent promise to kill Dr. Aleksander Lukin as soon as he gets the chance.

After Bucky finishes explaining Tony’s role, using Stark Industries to arm cats with hidden claws, his tone abruptly shifts, his tail twitching in frustration. “I haven’t seen Tony since he brought me here and patched me up. There’s no phones here. No internet. I’ve just been _waiting_.”

A few things Bucky’s said about Tony’s role in all this makes it easy to see that Bucky’s taken it particularly hard. Steve himself still has to suss out exactly how he feels about Natasha thinking he’d been the one who was targeting Bucky, and her interest in Steve from the beginning had always been to learn what she could about what happened on Sakhalin. Steve will have to ask her what changed, when she decided to trust him, and brought them together again. For right now, he finally pulls one arm out from where Bucky’s tucked him in, and pats the thick end of his tail to get his attention.

“You must be pretty mad at Tony for how he used your friendship like that.”

Bucky clicks his tongue and his ears are squashed down in pain for a split second. “I should have known better,” he dryly explains. “Cats don’t have friends.”

“Come on,” Steve wags the tip of Bucky’s tail, intentionally annoying him just a little bit. “I know you guys were close. I know you must’ve… confided in him. Maybe about a few things you have in common?” Steve had tried to talk to Bucky about Tony before, knowing the rich, aloof fellow cat is in a relationship with Pepper Potts. Steve has thought about how he might reach out to Pepper on the subject, considering there’s no one else he can talk to about it, and doesn’t dare Google anything while his job owns his devices and his father owns his internet access. It never seemed appropriate to ask a woman he barely knows about her sex life, but the amount of time Bucky spent with his nose in his phone, Steve figures he must be talking to _someone_.

Bucky looks like he considers carefully before he answers. “Maybe I did. A little. Too much, anyway.”

“It must have been nice, though,” Steve probes, not letting Bucky get away with that. “Having someone to talk to makes a big difference. A friend.”

“He was just using our relationship to get information about you,” Bucky says, but his ears have gone miserably flat now that he isn’t paying attention and his tail wriggles in Steve’s hand. Steve takes a hint and gives it a few, long strokes. “He was never really my friend.”

“A little unconventional, maybe.” Steve isn’t sure if he should push it, trying to convince Bucky to give someone a chance after already violating his trust. “It seems Tony is in a strange position too, with all these players like T’Challa and Shuri, Natasha and SHIELD, all with their own agenda. It seems to me like he really was looking out for you. Like a friend would.”

Bucky shrugs with just the one shoulder. “Maybe. Aren’t you hungry?”

Steve is taken off guard by the abrupt shift in topic, and finally releases Bucky’s tail. “Yeah, starving. Anything other than hospital food. Then you can tell me more about this plan of theirs.”

“I’ll make you some trout and eggs,” Bucky tells him, and Steve thinks that sounds pretty good until Bucky also tells him he’ll try and find some coffee. Bucky’s coffee may be brewed with love, but it’s downright terrible.

“Just some water would be fine,” Steve tells him. “But trout and eggs sound amazing. _Anything_ other than hospital food sounds amazing.”

Bucky smiles at him, pats his knee through the blanket and slides off the bed. Steve watches Bucky pad across the strange little apartment, tail quirked at the little lopsided angle Steve had gotten used to when he first brought Bucky home, and wishes Bucky would have actually stayed by his side a little longer, just because. As if he felt the tug of Steve’s silly wish, Bucky hesitates in the front doorway, one foot already in the hall. “If any of the other cats around here come in… they aren’t friendlies.” Apparently, Steve’s face gives away how surprised he is to hear that, so Bucky continues, “They don’t trust you because you saved him, but they hate me for attacking T’Challa and Shuri. The worst thing a cat can be is a traitor, so…”

“Oh,” Steve says, suddenly remembering another traitor. He had grappled with the idea of telling Bucky about what happened at the loading dock or not, given his complicated relationship with the other feline. By now, Steve’s learned to trust Bucky when it comes to his own feline relationships and gets it out quickly. “I saw Brock. He was with Agent Sitwell when Natasha and Clinton broke me out of the hospital. Sitwell was one of those things, like Zola. Clinton killed it, but Brock just stood there… I don’t think he knew Sitwell was one of them. I don’t think he could tell at all, even after it revealed itself. I invited him to come with us, but he refused.”

Bucky’s mouth drops when Steve tells him that last part, but he recovers quickly. “I see. I think all the Secret Service cats have been neutralized. Brock told me they went through some inoculation regimen at the CFC in order to operate without muzzles. It’s better that he didn’t come,” he adds suddenly. “A cat like Brock… I think if the humans gave him a choice he would betray us all in a heartbeat. He’s already proven once that he would.”

How sad, Steve thinks, but doesn’t spare too much pity for the old tom cat. He had been a miserable bastard to Bucky, abusing him on Sakhalin, and never seemed to be sorry for any of it. Steve had tried to understand the complicated world of cat relationships, of dominating mates and whatever else comes with it, but he’s pretty sure Brock is just an asshole, even by feline standards, so he lets it go.

When Bucky gets back, they eat in surprising peace, neither bringing up anything about hydra, or the Wakanda Movement. Instead, Bucky tells Steve about the sanctuary, about the little gang of barely supervised kittens that took over the gym, and talks about his time with the STRIKE cadets. Steve tells Bucky about the general’s awkward attempt to ask about their relationship, and also that his mom is staying here in DC for a while. When he mentions that he wants to introduce Bucky to her, Bucky turns red and nods, but doesn’t say anything else. It’s easy conversation, like a tiny, stolen vacation from the current fight.

They finish eating and Bucky clears away the dishes. He gives Steve a cup of overly sweet vanilla-cream coffee. He’s so proud of himself for finding some that Steve happily sips the terrible brew, while Bucky explains the plan.

* * *

It’s almost Christmas by the time Steve can easily walk on his own, which is great because the first place he needs to walk into is the White House.

 

* * *

 

A two part series by the incredible [Gravesecret](https://gravesecret.tumblr.com/post/174888470577/another-piece-commissioned-by-resinonao3-3)! Bucky hates the bath, but it's not so bad when Steve is there to give him snuggles after...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished the fic! I'll be posting the remaining chapters over the next week.


	32. Hunters or Housecats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE:  
> FOUR pieces of artwork on this chapter! :)
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

Tony Stark is arrested just outside of DC, driving into the state alone from New York, at the same time that Stark Industries comes under investigation for collusion, sedition, and fraud. It’s fine, it’s part of the plan, but Bucky’s nerve wavers when he sees the news. When he finds his temporary apartment empty, raw fear settles into his stomach.

“Have you seen my human?” Bucky asks the cats in the kitchen. One is so startled she drops her sandwich and a male turns sharply towards Bucky, ears laid back and snarl curling his lips. It isn’t Fang (whose actual name turned out to be Chip), but Bucky isn’t exactly popular with any of them. The aggressive male drops his gaze the moment he recognizes Bucky, and backs down.

Unpopular, but still dominant. Bucky can live with that.

“I saw him take the stairs,” the male answers, eyes falling somewhere around Bucky’s knees. “Up.”

Bucky leaves the civilians be, offering no thanks. It’d be condescending to force the smaller male to continue submitting to him, especially since he clearly only answered in the hopes Bucky would leave. It’s been a rough few days, surrounded by the mounting tension from the others, just one of the frustrations he has to deal with for their plan to work. It reminds him of being back in the tenement, except there’s a lot more kits around who are all either terrified of him or obnoxiously curious.

Steve—being _Steve_ —refuses stay confined to the apartment, and the moment he can walk on his own he develops a bad habit of straying out. ‘Just getting exercise,’ Steve claims repeatedly, having the nerve to give Bucky that big, dopey grin, apparently clueless that they’re surrounded by cats with their first real taste of freedom. It’s not just the house cats, still nervously pawing at the bald spot around their throats; it’s not just the police cats used to certain regimented discipline; it’s not just the ferals no longer fearing the threat of being picked up by the CFC. Now that these cats are ‘free’, they are part of something larger. The Wakanda Movement, for better or worse, is labeled a terrorist organization, and somehow knowing they are committed to these higher ideals, ideals beyond their collars and their old keepers, has given every single one of them an opportunity to experience true agency in its name.

Bucky has no idea how to talk to his stubborn human about how Steve’s presence stirs up anxiety and fear in the others. These felines are only just starting to realize how angry they are, how little the threat of human discipline matters now, and Steve is the sole human in the whole compound. If even one of the free cats decides Steve is the human who should make reparations for their misery—reparations Bucky can’t even begin to define—he imagines the whole sanctuary will explode, a grenade with its pin pulled.

Besides that, Steve doesn’t rest nearly as much as he should. Bucky has already scolded him once after catching him on his second set of push-ups on the living room floor, and now he’s taking _stairs_? Steve had agreed to stick with using the elevators only the _day_ before.

By now, Bucky has re-learned how to quad with just the one arm, but he takes the stairs upright and slowly, thinking of what to say when he finds his wayward idiot. There’s a security door at the top of the stairwell, a pass through from the hidden, modern interior to a facade of crumbling brick and flaking paint, and this is where he hesitates. Steve’s scent is strong here, an instant comfort, and Bucky’s frustration cools as he considers the mission ahead. Steve has been more reckless than usual lately, but also strangely quiet. There’s a very real chance that almost dying (again) did something to shake Steve’s usual confidence, and he’s willfully compensating by throwing himself head-first into danger. Steve’s idiotic amendment to their plan could very well be just another example, and Bucky would be the one helping Steve self-destruct.

“Damn it,” Bucky mutters, and moves on. The plan is already in motion and there’s no backing out now. Pepper is already waiting on her end, and Shuri didn’t train him on the computer for nothing.

The moment he opens the door, a blast of cold air forces Bucky’s whole body to clench and his tail dives for cover between his legs. He spots Steve immediately, leaning over the rooftop’s low wall, and makes his way out against the terrible weather.

At least Steve’s wearing a heavy coat, Bucky thinks. Small miracles.

Steve straightens when the exterior door clangs shut. This neighborhood doesn’t have any tall buildings; no well-lit trendy condos or high rises or even an industrial park. That leaves the plush layer of clean snow to gather up moonlight, and casts everything in cool blue hues. The color takes to Steve the way it always does, pale skin practically glowing, making him appear beautiful and strange against the night sky as his eyes widen. “Bucky?”

Bucky coughs and reminds himself that he’s supposed to be angry. “What are you doing up here? Tony just got arrested, we have a mission in less than an hour, you’re exposed to about a million sightlines, and do you _realize_ how cold it is? Of all the _reckless_ —Why are you laughing?”

Steve’s warm breath puffs out in a cloud as he chuckles, then goes to hold his side before aborting the movement. Probably reminding himself that he’s supposedly ‘mission-ready’ according to his self-diagnosis. “Sorry,” Steve says, still smiling, then ducks his chin into the wooly red scarf around his throat. “I wore a coat, though. See? I’m learning…”

Bucky snorts, completely unsatisfied, and Steve offers him a lopsided grin instead of another lame excuse. “Just a few more minutes?”

The way Steve unironically asks permission throws Bucky off. He’s not used to Steve sounding so… _submissive_. It reminds him that, while things between them have remained solid as stone, something else fundamental has shifted. Bucky crunches over the fresh snow, his nerves stiff in the cold air, hand jammed deep in his pocket, and only stops when he comes stump-to-shoulder with his human. Steve looks back out over the ledge, leaning against the brick where he’s already worn away a patch in the wet snow with the warmth of his hands.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to this area of DC,” Steve says, gazing out over the tops of dingy buildings and tangled power lines below. There’s an abandoned gas station on the corner across the street. It’s plastered with graffiti, littered with old tires, and its line of broken pumps sprout weeds that stubbornly defy the hazardous materials signs nailed around the lot’s broken down fence.

It’s not much of a view.

“Why would you?” Bucky presses a little more weight into Steve’s side. It feels nice to have something there, now that his own arm is not. “Mostly feral tenements and liquor stores… A lot of homeless humans. The light rail station is a mess. I surveyed about four square blocks and it all looks like this.”

“Four square blocks, huh?” Steve bumps his hip against Bucky’s. “Now who's being reckless?”

“I don’t have a hole in my body!” Bucky brutally reminds him, and Steve smiles at first until Bucky grimly continues. “...And I have an _idiotic_ plan to prepare for.”

“Sorry,” Steve says, although his apology is hardly an admission of defeat. He quickly switches gears, because they’ve already had that fight and Bucky’d already lost. “I used to do this on Sakhalin. Did you know that?”

Bucky shakes his head. He’d never thought about what Captain Rogers had got up to back then without him. Steve briefly closes his eyes and lifts his chin, as if he could catch a scent on the air other than ice or snow.

“There was something about that wind across the base. The scent of the ocean. The way the town was just a couple of lights below. I guess I always felt…” Steve straightens again and puts a hand to his own chest, struggling with whatever he feels there. “Peaceful? That can’t be the right.”

“It was a warzone,” Bucky says. He certainly hasn’t forgotten the companions that died over there, and he knows Steve never would either. He’s not sure what the captain is getting at. “It was the opposite of peaceful.”

“Home, then.” Steve admits it with a miserable sigh. The warm vapor of his breath hangs in the chilly air for a few seconds before it drifts apart. “It felt like home.”

“So what does Washington Highlands feel like?” Bucky asks tilting his head back out to the dingy cityscape that seems to have caught Steve’s attention.

“Not the same,” Steve admits. Bucky can’t identify the tone in his voice. Nostalgia? Disappointment? Before the Nobel Prize ceremony, he would have been able to read Steve better than this. Is that what’s changed? Did something close off between them? He searches Steve’s expression for more clues, but comes up empty. “It’s not the same as Sakhalin, but it still feels… like this is what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“It’s because we finally know what war we’re fighting,” Bucky suggests, because that much he understands. It’s the same reason he’d decided to stay and fight, on a similar cold night on a different rooftop, not so long ago. “It’s because we know it’s _right_.”

“Yeah…” Steve agrees. He nods, but Bucky still isn’t sure there’s any real satisfaction with that answer. He half suspects that there’s an unsaid ‘however’ at the end of that agreement and Steve’s just trying to avoid another argument. Maybe that’s what’s wrong, maybe they fell out of step after their earlier disagreement. Steve finally drops his gaze, then looks up at Bucky through his lowered lashes. “So you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“What? Nothing.”

“Uh _huh_ ,” Steve agrees again, but at least this time it’s obvious that he’s being a sarcastic little shit. He turns to Bucky fully, reaches out and hooks a finger into a belt loop, gently tugging them closer to one another. “Come on, Buck. The way you’re looking at me. You trying to figure me out?”

Bucky’s so annoyed by how easily he gave himself away that he doesn’t answer. Besides, Steve smells so good it momentarily distracts him. This close Bucky can even pick up the natural musk under the layer of his usual scent. Bucky should be burying his face into Steve’s neck right about now, but between Steve’s prying and the building anxiety between them, Bucky simply can’t allow himself to steal any affection from their serious moment.

“Hey,” Steve starts again, this time ignoring whatever imaginary boundary exists between them, and cups Bucky’s face with both hands. Steve’s palms are frigid from where he planted them in the melting snow and even though they aren’t wholly unpleasant, Bucky flinches from the shock of it. Steve gently rubs the line of Bucky’s jaw with his thumbs in response, and looks him in the eyes. “I know you’re worried,” he says. He rakes his fingers back, digging into Bucky’s scruff, where the cold feels especially nice. “But I need you on my side with this one.”

“I’m always on your side.” Bucky’s voice comes out in a whisper. “I can still be worried, you idiot.” His vision blurs from the way Steve’s fingernails gently dig into his fur and Bucky drops his forehead against Steve’s, pressing hard enough to feel it. “I just. I _miss_ you.”

Steve’s fingers stop, and Bucky blinks, surprised at his own words.

Is that it? Is that what’s been bothering him this whole time? It’s ridiculous, and yet suddenly Bucky feels as if he hasn’t been touched in a hundred years.

Steve’s hands gently sweep Bucky’s chin forward. His kiss is slight, not much more than a sip, but it lights up Bucky’s nerves like a crackle of static, all the way down to the tip of his tail. Bucky can’t help the needy little moan that escapes, and Steve drinks it in and takes even more. His nose is like an ice cube where it presses into Bucky’s cheek, and even his tongue is cool when it slips past Bucky’s lips. They’re both hurt, both gasp from the surprise of pain after hands graze the wrong ribs, or bodies press against a tight muscle. That doesn’t stop either of them from chasing the heat that suddenly rages between them, seeking out the touch and the pressure and the friction.

Bucky’s one hand fists into Steve’s scarf, and Steve has his hands on Bucky’s waist, sneaking deft fingers under his jacket’s loose hem until Bucky yelps. All that heat is snuffed out the instant Steve finds Bucky’s hip bone with his snow-chilled hands. Steve laughs, trying to recover, and reaches for him again, but Bucky’s annoyed and shoves those dangerous, long fingers away.

“You got too cold up here,” Bucky tells him, his tail still flicking from side to side as he half turns away. “We’re going back in, and you’re taking the elevator this time.”

“Deal,” Steve sighs, and follows Bucky obediently enough, then ruins it when he tries to flirt again. “Maybe you can warm me up on the way down?”

Bucky snorts. “Nice try, human.”

“Can’t blame a fella…” Steve shrugs—or at least tries to, before he winces and gives his injury a tentative touch. They head down the few steps back into the modern part of the sanctuary, Bucky still feeling the charge of all that energy left unchanneled.

Steve follows Bucky into the elevator without a fuss, although Bucky suspects that Steve just uses the excuse of the private elevator car to hold Bucky’s hand. They break the tender touch the moment the doors start to open, and that same awkward wall creeps back into place. Keeping their relationship private from the other felines is nearly as important as it had been to keep it from the humans. There’s not much the ‘free’ cats can legally accomplish, but there’s other ways these angry felines can make Steve and Bucky’s life miserable at the sanctuary.

Avoiding any and all public display of affection is at least something that Steve didn’t have to be told, since their relationship is about as taboo as it gets for both species. Still, Bucky can tell the proud human wilts a little with every aborted motion between them, every abruptly ended laugh, or prematurely broken eye contact. Even in their own, small apartment, their conversation is reduced down to a whisper. There is no such thing as privacy, surrounded as they are by so many keen ears. Bucky suddenly realizes this forced distance, missing Steve’s intimacy, might actually be the reason he’s felt so separated from his human after all.

Bucky hesitates in front of the door that leads to their apartment, shooting Steve a glance.

“I still hate this plan, by the way,” Bucky bluntly states.

After a startled pause, Steve bursts out laughing. He even has to clasp his wound again when his chest shakes with the outburst, and Bucky smiles, feeling only a little guilty.

Bucky has nothing to worry about. He knows his human well enough.

* * *

There’s nothing quite like Christmas at the White House. Trees trimmed with sparkling copper ribbons line every arched window. Golden lights twinkle like candle flames from the massive chandeliers. Cranberries and poinsettias splay out of every vase and adorn every wall like wreathes of flame.

Steve ignores the fretting security guard at his back, instead staring down the Secret Service agent in front of him. Steve’s badge had only got them so far before it finally triggered some security alert, and now they’re stuck just inside the West Wing checkpoint. He knows Pierce must have been notified by now, which is especially obvious when the agent that appears with a muzzle for Bucky comes with an additional three agents as backup. Steve feels a flash of anger when Bucky accepts the carbon fiber restraint, but doesn’t let it show, even as Bucky is taken from his side. It’s all part of the plan. Bucky is no more than his loyal hunting cat, who rescued him from the Wakanda Movement and escorted him to the White House. They knew they’d be separated, and never expected Pierce to allow Bucky anywhere near him.

Steve turns the heat from that injustice onto the agent in front of him.“I’ll only speak to the president,” he says again. “ _Now_ , son.”

The agent swallows down any possible retort he could give to a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and speaks softly into his mic. Steve doesn’t turn around to watch Bucky get dragged out the door. He suspects they plan to detain Bucky at the Secret Service station set up on the North Lawn, where a number of their own SCFs are kenneled and non-Resident operations are coordinated.

 _Just as they planned_ , he reminds himself. Bucky needs to be separated from him in order for this to work. Steve can’t help but touch the phone in his pocket, and presses the hard outline into his palm to reassure himself as he waits for the agent to finish his quiet discussion. Bucky isn’t who Pierce has been hunting, and Steve is counting on the cat’s presence being deprioritized now that Steve’s shown up. He’s been the VIP target of the president’s covert capture-kill op, and here he is, hand-delivering himself, without the need to deploy any further resources. Just like Christmas.

The agent looks up sharply after receiving a final message in his earpiece, then instructs Steve to follow him. Steve uses his media credentials to bypass the no-phone zone, showing off his Pentagon secured phone with a careless shrug. The Secret Service agent is clearly too preoccupied getting ‘the package’—that is, Steve himself—where it needs to be, and the security guard simply looks relieved he’s handed over such a complicated visitor to the proper authorities. They travel up the access stairwell, then down a hallway where the carpet covers creaking, antique floorboards until the furniture becomes as ornate as it is stately.

For once, the Marines posted outside of the Oval Office don’t salute, and it occurs to Steve that he’s never actually visited the White House dressed in civvies. Instead, with a nod from the agent, one Marine opens the relatively modest single white door. She waits wordlessly for Steve to pass through, like any other visitor. Inside, Pierce leans against his desk with his back to the door, speaking to Vice President Talbot.

“Believe it or not, some television program had a feline star apprehended from Project Insight’s recommendation and-” Talbot stops abruptly when Steve steps in the room, the man’s dark mustache twitching. Steve hadn’t expected the VP’s presence, since the ex-brigadier general of the Air Force is supposed to still be in Russia with the Secretary of State. Pierce turns sharply around, as if surprised at the intrusion, then softens immediately.

“Captain Rogers!” Pierce’s small smile is about as expressive as his face gets, warming at the sight of Steve as if he’s just returned from vacation and not weeks on the Missing Person’s list. There is a flicker of concern there, something Steve isn’t quite sure about, before he continues. “My God, son, you certainly gave the FBI a run for their money. Shouldn’t you be in the hospital? I can call the EMTs.”

Steve salutes, surprised by the instinct, but quickly shakes it off when the president dismisses it. “Mr. President. Vice President Talbot,” Steve adds, nodding towards the other man. He may not have expected Talbot, but his plan has contingencies. “I have some news that can’t wait, and I’m afraid… it’s for the president’s eyes only, sir.”

Talbot’s eyebrows leap up in surprise, but before he can object, Pierce puts up a placating hand. “Captain Rogers has been on a Top Secret mission for us,” he says, and Talbot immediately backs down. “And I owe this man my life.”

“Understood, sir,” Talbot says, gathering up a leather folio from the president’s glossy desktop. “I’ll await your orders on Project Insight’s third phase.”

Third phase? Steve watches Pierce, wondering if he planned for the VP to let that slip. Project Insight on a whole has been publicized as a safety measure, identifying the cats most likely associated with the Wakanda Movement and temporarily suspending their license privileges as those ties are investigated. Once Steve combined what he knew with Bucky, Tony Stark, Natasha and the Black Panthers, they theorized that the cats were being collected in order to force Zola’s—now Lukin’s—treatment on them to remove their natural defense against-

Steve jumps when Pierce snaps his fingers, turning back to the vice president before the man can leave the room. “Oh, Glenn! Tell Carla that she did an amazing job with the decorations, as always.” Pierce offers up a humble shrug, just any bachelor to his married friend, and Talbot grins. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“She’ll be happy to hear that, sir,” Talbot beams. The reminder of his family making it easier to overlook the security clearance snub. “She certainly appreciates the Christmas Dinner invitation. It’s the only thing Georgie talked about all week.”

Steve waits for the vice president to leave for his own office, and Pierce casually leans back against his desk and motions towards the sofas in the center of the room. “I can’t believe you’re on your feet! Where have you been? The doctors told me you had a punctured lung. Are you sure I can’t call anyone?”

Steve follows the president’s gesture to sit with his eyes, but stays where he is. There’s a poinsettia on the coffee table, a mix of white and red leaves surrounded by splays of cranberries. Absurdly, Steve recalls the festive decorations are on a list of toxic household plants, included in that nearly-useless guide he was sent home with from the CFC the day he licensed Bucky. Despite sneaking in a little bit of exercise when Bucky wasn’t looking, he’s already exhausted by the long walk over the North Lawn and through the West Wing. Still, he doesn’t want to get trapped in the soft cushions, and instead continues building on his established story.

“It took me a long time to get strong enough to escape with my SCF, but I had to once I found out what really caused the Great Die Off.”

Pierce’s eyes narrow into slits, and the air in the room stills, as if he stopped breathing altogether. “That _is_ interesting,” Pierce flatly states. “Though I’m having a hard time figuring out what it has to do with you getting shot and kidnapped by terrorists.”

“That’s what I’m getting at,” Steve keeps going, the story Natasha prepared for him building up like a snowball. “It’s all SHIELD! The Wakanda Movement, the Die Off, using Bucky against Black Panther. All of it! Ever since SHIELD has been around, they’ve been acting in the shadows, manipulating the public. If SHIELD is a rogue agency, sir, that means you’re in much greater danger than just from a few felines. Agents kidnapped and tried to kill me, but when Sitwell attacked-”

“Agent Jasper Sitwell?” Pierce fills in, his tone still oddly flat. “Agent Sitwell with the Secret Service. You’re saying he attacked you?”

Steve nods. “That’s why I needed to speak with you directly, Sir. If SHIELD has already infiltrated the Secret Service, we need to get you someplace safe, where they won’t-”

“The way I heard it,” Pierce suddenly interrupts, speaking in an easy manner as he casually shifts his weight off his desk, and tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Sitwell tried to rescue you from Romanoff, and got killed for the effort.”

Steve blinks. Pierce’s posture is relaxed, his jacket on the back of his chair and the top button of his vest undone, just another long day of hard work and meetings for the president of the United States. He waits patiently for an answer, but the words stick in Steve’s throat.

The way he’d heard? From _whom_? Had that thing inside Sitwell manage to survive after Natasha’s cat had torn it apart? For the first time since this mission began, Steve’s pulse starts to race just as one of the Oval Office’s hidden doors swings open and Brock enters. His striped orange tail goes stiff when he spots Steve with those golden eyes, but he doesn’t break his stride.

“When they told me you were downstairs I took the liberty of calling up the most loyal cat I have on staff,” Pierce explains, and pats Brock’s shoulder firmly enough to make the tough old bastard wince. Brock’s ears cup the sides of his head as he looks up into Pierce’s face, and Steve feels a sickening twist inside him as he realizes what’s happened. “Brock here debriefed me on the encounter with Agent Romanoff and her hunter, so I’m thinking it’s not just SHIELD that’s gone rogue. Is it Captain Rogers?”

Steve gives Brock a hard look, but Brock won’t even glance away from the side of Pierce’s disinterested face, tail between his legs as he submissively stands by.

“Oh, Brock…” Steve sighs out.

This is _not_ part of the plan.

* * *

Bucky’s never quite smelled anything like Christmas at the White House, all noxious pumpkin-spiced potpourri and artificial pine hitting his sense of smell like a sledgehammer before he even steps foot in the West Wing. For once he doesn’t mind when a security guard wraps his face in a muzzle, even though Steve goes rigid the moment it appears. Bucky accepts it without a fight, while the guards await orders from the Secret Service. As a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Steve’s security clearance had allowed him to quickly bypass the first checkpoint at the visitor gate, and only in the heavily secured access way for members of Joint Chiefs are they finally stopped.

So far, so good.

When Natasha had told Steve he couldn’t just walk up to the White House ‘and ring the doorbell,’ she apparently hadn’t realize that he is willfully deaf to sarcasm and dumb enough to have thought that sounded like the start of a _great_ plan. He’d even managed to win over T’Challa and Shuri in that obnoxious way he always inspires everyone around him, and before long even Natasha had nodded in silent approval.

Bucky had known better than to tell Captain Steven Grant Rogers that he needed to think of something less risky, so now here they are, standing around unarmed when President Pierce’s Secret Service arrive and surround them.

There’s nothing in Steve’s exhausted posture that suggests he cares too much that Bucky is being taken away, but Bucky isn’t expecting there to be. They’re playing into the propaganda the White House concocted: Steve the rescued hostage, Bucky the perfect double agent, and nothing more. Still, he can hear Steve’s voice one more time before he’s lead out of earshot, and it makes him smile behind his muzzle.

“I’ll only speak with the president,” Steve insists again to the Secret Service agent, who doesn’t seem to know what to do with him. “ _Now,_ son.”

There isn’t any compromise with Steve’s Official Captain Rogers voice, laden with so much authority that it’s clear he’s the commander of this battlefield. Maybe there _is_ something to this plan of Steve’s, but Bucky will be damned if he’ll admit it.

It’s still snowing, dark already in the late December afternoon as Bucky follows the uniformed Marine to the Secret Service station back towards the Appointment Gate. The agents don’t speak to him, and he can practically feel the guns aimed at him from behind, apparently unimpressed with Steve’s story of his daring rescue from the Wakanda Movement. At least they’d been allowed through the Appointment Gate to begin with, or this whole plan would have been dead in the water before they’d got started.

Despite the muzzle, Bucky senses stillness in the air, silence that feels almost calming, and he remembers how Steve spent so much time before this, thinking of Sakhalin. Their lives are nearly unrecognizable now, and yet they’re still doing the same job. Bucky feels like he’s been living his life upside down for the last five years, and now he’s suddenly upright, doing what he was built for. There’s a hell of a lot more subterfuge than combat, and there’s more on the line than uncovering a single weapons cache or eliminating the head of a terrorist cell, but it’s a _mission_ , pure and simple. It feels _right_ , the broken tooth in the cog repaired. Somehow, he’s more balanced now than if his flesh and blood arm were still attached.

Maybe ‘peace’ is the word Steve had been looking for after all. Not the kind that is the opposite of war, but the kind only found on the battleground, knowing one is no longer alone.

The Secret Service station is white, like all the buildings on the North Lawn, but plain compared to the splendid march of colonnades surrounding the White House. It’s a cross between a minimalist police station and an administrative office, with an attached barracks that Bucky suspects are for the feline agents standing guard out front. Those stern-faced cats don’t react when Bucky passes through, unimpressed with him despite his size thanks to Clinton’s coaching on his appearance. Between his missing arm, his sloppy clothes, ill-fitting muzzle, and an intentionally scruffed tail, he doesn’t look like much of a threat. He walks slumped over, doing what he can to hide his true size in his dreary slog, and bows his head submissively to enhance the illusion. He doesn’t want to catch their eye yet.

This is the most dangerous part of the plan, leaving Steve on his own. Bucky feels the phantom pressure of his missing collar tightening around his throat as he’s led behind locked doors, passing through the front part of the station to the barracks. Rather than rows of open bunks like on Sakhalin, the cots on Fort McNair, or the stacked cubbies they slept in on Fort Drum, this feline barracks is more reminiscent of processing at the CFC. Individual kennels are divided with chain link fence, each one outfitted with nothing more than a single, thin mat and a footlocker.

How many of these Secret Service felines are kept in these narrow kennels? Is this where Brock lives? Maybe not, since he seems to have been stationed at the field office downtown, where Bucky and Steve had first met Agent Sitwell. Bucky instinctively attempts to scent the empty kennels, curious about the cats who must live here, but stops short when they reach the end of the row. The guards make him wait as they open the only cage currently occupied, and inside Bucky spots a ratty feline, coiled tightly atop one of the dented footlockers, so small that his whole body fits on the lid. He’s filthy, his matted hair dark with patches of dried blood, and Bucky momentarily forgets himself when he’s struck with the sense that this cat might actually be dead.

“Who is that?”

“Shut up.” The agent shoves him inside so roughly that Bucky stumbles on the uneven padded mat. The human slams the gate shut and gives it a vicious kick, most likely just to hear the extra crash of metal links. An electronic lock seals the gate behind him, an indicator light on the housing for the deadbolt flashing green to match the other closed kennels around them, just as Shuri had described. Apparently, the Secret Service felines are locked in when they are off duty, kept under human guard at all times. Bucky wonders how many cats sleep in these kennels, caged like an animals, and happy about it.

The human that escorted Bucky into the barracks utters an ugly few words, then leaves. Finally alone—not counting the ball of feline misery a few feet away—Bucky twists his one arm around his head in an attempt to release the muzzle. No use. The things are designed to stop even two-armed cats from removing them, and Bucky can’t get any leverage against his own head.

Bucky huffs, considering his company again, and closes the gap between them. He looks like he must be another ‘guest’ of the Secret Service, since he doubts they’d keep such a runt as an SCF. “Hey,” Bucky starts, but doesn’t dare touch the other feline. The ball of scruff flinches, and Bucky watches a distinct swelling of breath rise up in its center mass. At least he’s alive. “Help me out. They didn’t take off my muzzle.” Still no response. “Hey, you-”

The cat’s patchy tail shivers, an attempt to move either failed or aborted or both. When he finally looks up, Bucky’s heart breaks.

It’s Brooklyn.

“You…” the kitten croaks out, blue eyes huge in his skull. Brooklyn has always been runtish, but he’s practically skeletal now, everything hollowed to leave nothing but sharp edges and dark pits. He could even be dying, and yet he still has the absolute balls to show his fangs. “Traitor.”

“God damn it,” Bucky hisses. Brooklyn doesn’t flinch, but he seems to give up any attempt to intimidate Bucky for now. “How long have you been here? Where are the others?”

Brooklyn doesn’t answer right away, instead uncurling slowly, letting one leg drape over the edge of the trunk, then the other. He doesn’t stand, and Bucky figures he’s just moving in an attempt to look more alert.

“Brooklyn,” Bucky repeats, when he realizes the smaller cat is stalling on purpose. “Where are the others? Pietro? Tripp? Mac?”

“Why should you care?” Brooklyn snaps, and finally those terrible round eyes narrow into something Bucky’s more used to seeing from the touchy, small feline.

Bucky glances back down the rows of kennels, wondering if they’re being monitored, or if the felines in the next room can hear their conversation. “I met our mutual friends. T’Challa and Shuri,” Bucky explains quickly. No one outside the Movement knows those names, and Bucky watches suspicion creep into Brooklyn’s face as the small cat goes still. “They explained everything, but they wouldn’t tell me what happened to you and the others.”

Brooklyn seems to consider this for a moment, then releases a slow breath that looks like it hurts. “Pietro is dead. Tripp, too. I think Mac got out, but he didn’t go back to Fort McNair. I thought I had an ally in the Secret Service that could get me close enough to Pierce to finish what we started.” Only then does Brooklyn break eye contact, his pain suddenly turning inward. “I was wrong.”

Bucky drops to his knees, taking the news like a bullet. He shouldn’t be surprised, not after everything he’s seen, everything he’s been through, but it’s still an ugly shock to know Pietro and Tripp are gone. Beautiful, quick little Pietro, always smiling like the whole world is just another baseball game. All of Tripp’s unshakable confidence, his charm and that wicked smile. Two young lives, unique and graceful, snuffed out.

How? Why? Bucky can’t even begin to guess, but why should it matter? Cats don’t have to do much of anything to be killed by humans.

The urge to mourn is so unfamiliar, it takes Bucky a moment of stunned silence before he even recognizes it. He’s rarely known attachment strong enough to feel this kind of pain, and shoving down that sense of hopeless fury is like trying to swallow a brick. Mentoring these stubborn, undisciplined kits had been something Bucky walked into blindly, but the pride he’d felt at their accomplishments, the warmth of their company late at night, the way they’d grown and learned and basked in his approval had done something deep inside Bucky he hadn’t expected.

The pain is somehow worse than when he’d been ripped from his sister’s side. It’s worse than when he got the news his sire had died. It’s even worse than when his own mother turned up her nose at him, as if Bucky had never been her own flesh and blood.

And all this pain, all this suffering, it all points back to one common factor.

“Fuck,” he finally breathes out. “Fucking humans…”

Brooklyn glances back at him. “Now you get it.”

For a moment Bucky gets lost in the hatred, as if suddenly struck by white out conditions on an open road, nothing at all visible past the flurry of ice. There is no justification to be found, no more patience to string along, no mutual understanding to be had. Humans want to crush the feline species under their heels, to use them like nothing more than cheap tools, to discard them or trade them away as soon as they outlive their usefulness. Even lucky felines are nothing more than pets, kept dumb and helpless until the time comes, but how they’re treated in their golden years can hardly compare to mundane cats or dogs.

Those beloved animals even get their own cemeteries. What do felines get? The Red Room. _Lukin_.

Bucky _hates_ them, _all_ of them, and even in that fleeting moment of weakness, Steve is just another human added to the list.

No...

 _Not_ Steve. It’s hydra. It’s _Pierce_.

Steve can be privileged and clueless and arrogant, and sometimes oafishly forces his human point of view, but he’s trying _so_ hard. He wants to be _better_ , and he wants other humans to be better, too. This is something they started together, something they’ll learn side-by-side, a commitment they made to each other and this struggle.

Bucky closes his eyes, tempers the white hot fury until it’s nothing more than an ember smoldering in his gut. That fight isn’t what he’s here for, isn’t the mission. As much as Bucky feels that fresh anger, the pain of loss for his dead kits, it’s hydra that they need to destroy. President Pierce is the tip of that spear for all the fear and hatred. Still, Bucky is out of words for now, and rests his back against the chain link. Brooklyn is apparently satisfied—or just too weak—to gloat any further, and doesn’t bother adjusting his perch either. Bucky has no choice; all he can do is wait.

T’Challa’s signal can’t come soon enough.

* * *

Steve has no idea what to do, so he falls back on his training and waits for fresh intel. He needs a new plan, but he can’t improvise without knowing more. Brock’s eyes are still locked on Pierce, lips parted with his tongue just barely exposed. Steve has seen Bucky do the same thing, as if the cat can taste the air itself. On top of that, Brock’s pupils are dilated, drinking in the sight of the president of the United States, enthralled. If Brock is now one of them, Steve doesn’t stand a chance. He survived Bucky’s crazed attack— _barely_ —but not while recovering from a gunshot and the resulting punctured lung. The military has trained him to fight alongside felines, not against them.

“Brock,” Pierce says, breaking the silence. “What happened to Agent Sitwell?”

“Agent Sitwell was informed that SHIELD Agent Romanoff, AKA the Black Widow, was going to retrieve Captain Rogers from Walter Reed. We ambushed her at the location she planned to switch vehicles. Her hunter killed Agent Sitwell.” Brock recites the basic events as if reading from a script, his cadence so even it could sync a metronome, and when he looks back at Steve, any recognition he may have had earlier is gone. “Captain Rogers went with them willingly.”

Steve’s options certainly seem to be narrowing. He still has his panic button, extraction only a code word away, but it’s far too soon. He doubts Clinton is even in position yet. This is why he would never make a good spy. Thinking up bullshit in order to talk his way out of a situation isn’t what he’s good at, no matter what his position is with the J5.

Fuck it.

“So,” Steve starts with a frown. “How did you do it?”

“Hm?” Pierce smiles pleasantly.

“Zola’s research,” Steve says, laying all his cards out on the table. If his plan was to walk right up to Pierce’s house and ring the doorbell, he may as well follow through with the theme. “The computers were completely destroyed. The Wakanda Movement recovered his laptop. So how did you do it? How did you recreate the procedure that makes humanoid felines immune to hydra?”

“Uh oh,” Pierce says, then hisses an ugly, staccato laugh through his teeth. “Someone thinks he knows something.”

“I know that whatever I saw down in that Heat Sink wasn’t human,” Steve says, and tries not to turn his eyes directly towards Brock when he catches a tail flick out of the corner of his eye. “I know that the only reason you hate cats so much, is because they know what you really are.”

“Are you sure about that?” Pierce’s brows knit together. “What a brave little soldier. You come into my house, bringing only half a story that’s already been told generations ago.”

 _That’s it,_ Steve thinks. _Keep going._

Steve makes a rude noise through his nose. “I was there, _sir_ ,” he spits the last word and Brock shows his fangs but doesn’t advance. It’s clear he won’t attack without the president’s direct command, only reacting mildly to Steve’s obvious hostility. “I was on Sakhalin when we captured Zola. He was developing Project Insight using RNS resources, wasn’t he.” It’s not really a question, and even though the thought hadn’t occurred to Steve until that moment, he’s dead sure he’s right. “For the United States. For _you_.”

“For _you_!” Pierce snarls, his calm demeanor shattering like an unlucky mirror, and Steve stands back, expecting an attack. Instead, Pierce paces around Brock in a circle as he raves. “We do this for you! For all humans. You fools, you narrow-minded _sheep_! These animals are nothing more than parasites. We have watched as they follow you, attach themselves to you, suck your resources dry. Egypt, Macedonia, Bengal, the Xia dynasty, Babylon. Humans sacrifice advancements in technology, civilization, war, all in reverence of this _lesser species_. And for what? For generations all you got in exchange was ‘protection,’ but in truth it was to wipe out _my_ kind from the earth.”

His _kind_? There are more of them? Steve thought they were dealing with just one entity, a creature with too many heads, distributing his minions in strategic locations the world over. That Zola was a part of Pierce all along, like Sitwell became, like Ward became, like Steve _nearly_ became.

Steve doesn’t want to dwell on that statement, so he pushes on. He has to keep the discussion coming back to humanoid felines for this to work. “So your answer is to use a terrorist’s procedure to take away what little defense the felines have left? People died bringing Zola in, brave Americans who—”

Pierce interrupts Steve with a scoff. “You talk about Americans and the impotent _Russkiye Narodinye Sili_ as if this is a war of nations? Ridiculous! This is a war of survival. A war of races.” Steve has never heard such an ugly statement in his life, but Pierce isn’t finished. “Once this pipeline gets us into China, the last continent on Earth will give up its feline population. Think of what we’ll learn when the whole planet is united!”

“United,” Steve flatly repeats. “Under you? Is that why Sitwell and Ward followed you? Is that why Zola said he expected us when we arrived?”

“Still, only half the story,” Pierce says, shaking his head. “Idiot. I _am_ Zola.”

Out of all Steve’s injuries, it’s the old scar on his thigh that suddenly flares with searing heat the moment Pierce’s head folds forward at an impossible angle, dropping to his chest as if mounted on a loosely fitted hinge. Shock hits Steve like live ordinance, obliterating all the strategy from his thoughts when slippery appendages burst from the top of Pierce’s spine. He had expected this—hell, he planned for it—but could never be truly prepared for the sight before him.

The tentacles uncoil in a bundle of living whips, cracking in the air as they free themselves, then gather collectively to strike. Steve needs to move. To duck or hide or run. Instead he stands there, frozen to the spot, unable to even blink as the creature in front of him sheds its human shell, and barbs stretch across the grand carpet of the Oval Office towards him.

There is no body, no maw or central joint, just the writhing tangle of appendages, glossy with moisture and pulsing with muscle under the slide of grey and green flesh. It doesn’t speak, yet Steve can hear its voice, the sound of it vibrating in his gut rather than his eardrums; deep and ever-changing, utterly indecipherable. The mounting horror of the unknown claws at Steve’s rational thought.

Suddenly, the air in the room reverberates, punctured like a balloon as glass pops from the French doors leading out to the Rose Garden. The mass of writhing horror staggers sideways, Pierce’s limp human shell dangling like a ragdoll from its thickening trunk.

Clinton. The shot.

Steve ducks as the Secret Service crash into the room from every door, weapons drawn, summoned by the sound of gunfire. About half of them immediately scan the room, unconcerned with the intangible mass before them.

The other half react differently.

“What the fuck is that!” One agent screams, while another immediately opens fire.

All this, and Brock doesn’t react until Pierce’s inhuman voice screeches out to him. “Kill the humans!”

In that moment, the Oval Office becomes a warzone. In that moment, the Oval Office also becomes a battle Steve knows how to fight.

More glass flies from the windows as the hydra in the center of the room squirms and recoils from the stinging shots, apparently not so much injured as superficially annoyed. Steve doesn’t waste the distraction. He snatches the Glock aimed at his head, yanks the agent forward, and disarms him with a twist of the wrist. A single shot to the knee forces the agent to the floor, and Steve executes him on the spot. Blood splashes against the poinsettia’s white leaves before the agent crashes into the coffee table.

Like Ward’s, the agent’s body suddenly spasms, quick movements jerking the corpse across the floor as the creature beneath the agent’s skin tries to break free, but Steve is already moving. He dives forward, trying to keep the freshly unsheathed hydra in his peripheral vision while never losing sight of Brock. The cat tears through the other agents with brutal efficiency, moving swiftly between the ones taking aim at the hydra in the center of the room.

The noise summons the Marines that guard the main entry. For a moment they are too stunned to react, and Steve sees the chance to recruit more allies. “The president’s been compromised!” He shouts, then takes cover when one Marine’s head snaps back from a gunshot, white hat flung against the wall following a burst of crimson. The human Secret Service are losing, and even though the second Marine quickly joins the fight, raising her side-arm and taking aim at what used to be her Commander in Chief, they won’t last long.

Steve knows he should flee in the chaos, follow through on the last stage of the plan, but he can’t abandon these soldiers, not when he’d been so key in bringing this monster home from Sakhalin. Steve breaks cover and kicks one of the hydra’s puppet agents in the back of the knee just as it aims for the Marine. Its head flings back. Steve takes a hold of each side of its face and breaks its neck with a precise twist. It won’t be down for long, but at least it takes the hostile out of the fight for a few, precious seconds. The Marine spins around, offers Steve a nod of thanks, and fires ineffectually at Brock, who bolts behind one of the far sofas.

That’s when the White House alarm system raises its long awaited cry. The Wakanda Movement is finally in position.

* * *

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to the other cat. Brooklyn remains draped over the lid of the footlocker, nose pressed against the wall. He isn’t sleeping, the tip of his tail gives him away as it tightens into a nervous coil every few seconds, but he isn’t going to give Bucky the time of day either. The shock of such horrible news makes Bucky disoriented, losing track of time as he sits against the cage’s locked gate. Will he hear T’Challa’s signal from here? The White House probably has an alarm for-

Just as Bucky is considering his options, he hears it. A long, slow wail rises up, and searchlights blaze through the barred windows. The green lights on each kennel gate flash to red, latches clicking open. It’s an automated security measure to scramble off-duty SCFs in the case of a tactical emergency, which means the Wakanda Movement must be in position and raising hell.

“What is this?” Brooklyn says, and Bucky turns to see he’s sitting up, eyes wide and ears turning rapidly in caution. “What’s happening?”

“Revolution,” Bucky utters, before he thinks about the word itself. It’s something usually said by the Russian insurgents he’d fought in the past, but has never felt right applied to his own life. That’s what this is though: a major shift, not just in their government but in their _world_ , exposing the source of evil and injustice that has lasted too long, spread too far. Bucky stands upright, moves the gate out of his way, and stalks down the hall towards the front office.

Bucky pauses mid-stride, slips into one of the open kennels, and rummages around in the foot locker there. He finds two tactical blades—a combat knife and a long, thin dagger. Both are well-balanced, solid weapons in their own sheaths, so he tucks the dagger into his boot, clips the knife onto his belt, and moves on. He can’t exactly dual-wield the blades, but one can never have too many weapons when going to war.

Apparently, the humans didn’t account for the two temporary prisoners. Bucky flattens himself against the door that leads out to the office, and peers through the narrow, reinforced window. Clearly the agents on site got the message. The office itself is all but abandoned, one switchboard operator remaining in front of a computer, shouting into his headset as he cycles through security camera feeds. Apparently, they can’t seem to get eyes on Eagle One—the Secret Service’s code name for POTUS—and the Oval Office cameras are down.

Perfect. Pepper must be halfway into their framework already.

“I’m coming,” Brooklyn says, and Bucky jumps halfway up the door at the sound of the light-footed cat’s voice. Somehow, Brooklyn had managed to sneak up behind Bucky, position himself in perfect breech order, and is scowling at the door as if he’s ready to pounce on the entire Secret Service. Now that Brooklyn is up, his injuries don’t appear too severe. A broken nose that’ll surely heal slightly askew—a pair of shiners to go with it—and a split lip seem to be the worst of it. His hair and the fur of his ears still hold the patchy, blackened blood from a gash on his forehead, but mostly he looks like he could use a bath. On instinct, Bucky wants to tell the young cadet to stay behind, to wait out the danger here in the barracks. If this grand plan succeeds, then Bucky will come collect Brooklyn after the dust settles. If they fail… well, Brooklyn will hardly be any worse off than he’d started, if he simply stays where Bucky’d found him.

Brooklyn glances up, probably awaiting the breech signal, and Bucky knows he can’t possibly ask this fearless soldier to stay behind. Brooklyn has enough right to lay down his life as the rest of them—perhaps even more than Bucky, since the young revolutionary committed to this cause long before Bucky was even aware of it. Bucky nods once, and Brooklyn makes a minute adjustment along his spine, tail twitching in anticipation.

This is something they’ve both actually trained for, and even though Brooklyn is technically still a cadet, few hunters are as skilled at clearing a room of hostiles and close quarters combat. Bucky wordlessly indicates the singular target: the switchboard operator, then flattens his ears aggressively: attack-to-disable. If he hadn’t been muzzled, he would have also shown his teeth, to suggest they could use any force necessary, but Brooklyn doesn’t need the additional clarity and Bucky doesn’t want to distract him with the fiddly task of removing it. Bucky leads the breach, kicking the door open, the mission is a go.

Already positioned to go low, Brooklyn slips through first, while Bucky takes the high position. The switchboard operator surges out of his seat and gets off a single shot at Bucky, who leaps away from the line of fire with room to spare. Bucky lets his instinct guide him, twisting as he attacks, dodging each and every gunshot, all aimed to kill, but the agent is trained well enough to just barely avoid Bucky’s first, second, and third knife strikes. The agent goes back on the offensive, and Bucky ducks another shot, then rushes up, slashing across the man’s wrist along the way. The shock of the sudden wound forces the agent to drop his gun, and Bucky immediately abandons his knife in order to catch it. The agent never even saw Brooklyn coming. In an instant, the young cat quickly snatches up Bucky’s falling blade, twists the human’s bleeding wrist behind his back, then sets the knife against the man’s red, heaving throat.

“Stop,” Brooklyn flatly tells him, without flinching. Apparently, he’d been more than ready to fight humans. Bucky ignores the nagging sensation of wrongness that comes from the disobedience, then looks at the Glock in his hand. He’s only ever held a rifle before, and getting caught with it had nearly ended his military career. The handgun is heavier than he’d thought it would be, and somehow more sterile than the knives he’s used to.

Stubby. Cold. Too much power in one tiny package. Bucky points it at the man’s face, the metal of the muzzle touching the skin between his eyebrows.

“Open the front gates. Both of them,” Bucky snarls through the filters on his mask. “Now.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” the agent says, expression twisting between realization and stubborn pride. “You’ll be euthanized for this. You goddamn animals!”

Bucky hears the sharp intake of breath first, the special muscle in Brooklyn’s diaphragm soaking in air before he releases his feline roar. “ _Now!_ ”

The human cries out from the sound, so close to his own ears, reverberating in his quivering chest. He turns pale, then a subtle shade of green, and fresh sweat springs up on his forehead, dripping around the barrel of the gun. The human struggles forward, reaching towards his console and Bucky adjusts his position to follow, giving the man just enough room to see the screen. He clicks through a few menus while Bucky watches, grateful again for Shuri’s training. He understands enough of what he sees to know the agent isn’t raising any new alarms, and instead deactivates a number of the perimeter defense systems surrounding the White House.

“Move,” Bucky orders, jerking the gun towards the door leading to the kennels to indicate the man should walk that way. Brooklyn keeps up behind him, never removing the knife from the human’s neck, until they find themselves in the cage at the end of the row. Brooklyn shoves him inside and slams the gate shut. Bucky strikes the button near the door to set the lock, then holds out his hand expectantly until Brooklyn finally returns his knife.

They leave the human there, without another word.

* * *

Only three of them survive the massacre in the Oval Office.

Corporal Glasser, the Marine whose partner was shot in the head, lays down suppressive fire as Steve helps Sarceno, a wounded Secret Service agent. As soon as Steve hauls him over the threshold into the Roosevelt Room, Glasser slams the oak door shut, then punches in a code on a control pad. Steel security bars slam into place, just as Brock flings himself against the door with a hard _thud!_ that shakes the plaster frame.

“Nice job, Corporal,” Steve says. He’d already got the names and ranks of the other survivors that were free of the hydra’s thrall; commanding a team goes over much better if you don’t just shout, _hey you,_ when issuing orders. So far, it’s kept them alive.

“Thank you, sir,” Glasser crisply answers. She’s lost her service cap, tight blonde bun fraying around the edges, and she quickly tosses away her white gloves to check the clip on her M1911. From the look of her disappointed scowl, she likely has only a handful of rounds remaining, and Steve’s commandeered Glock isn’t doing much better. Considering the Marines posted outside of the Oval Office are an Honor Guard, usually armed with unloaded rifles and ornamental sabers—and Steve himself came in unarmed to begin with—things could be worse.

Steve adjusts his grip on Sarceno while quickly assessing the ornate meeting room to see if there’s anything at all they could use in a fight. There’s a fireplace beside the door, and a long conference table takes up the middle of the room designed for larger delegations to prepare for meetings in the Oval Office. There isn’t exactly a weapons cache conveniently laid out for them, but the location is strategic for two reasons: Firstly, the Marine’s quick intel about the security door offered them precious time to regroup. Secondly, the Roosevelt Room leads through a series of offices that connect with the lobby. Preferable than the long hallway that offers a more direct path to the North Lawn at the expense of being a narrow trap with no cover or room to maneuver.

“How are you doing Agent Sarceno?” Steve says, lowering the injured man into one of the conference chairs. It has a high back and wheels, Italian leather already streaked with the man’s sweat and blood.

“I’ll live,” Sarceno grunts, as Steve gets a better look at his wound through layers of crimson-stained fabric. Brock had caught him on the hip with his machete, and even though Steve hopes it’s only a superficial wound, it’s bleeding like a son of a bitch. Luckily, the table had apparently been set for a meal, and Steve snatches a handful of damask napkins to form a makeshift field dressing. Sarceno winces as Steve gently pulls the radio free from his hip, right where it bunches against the cloth of his shirt. Steve leaves the radio in Sarceno’s lap, and doesn’t touch the white coil leading to his earpiece.

“What the fuck was that thing?” Sarceno says, panting hard as his adrenaline plummets. “Did it kill POTUS?”

“It was POTUS,” Steve tells him, unwilling to sugarcoat it. “I’ve been fighting that thing for five years and didn’t even know it. It’s some kind of,” Steve pauses, presses the wadded up dinner napkin into the agent’s wound. It’s actually worse than he’d initially thought, probably through to the bone. He continues quickly, hoping to distract him. “Some kind of parasite or an alien that looks human but isn’t. I saw it once already, on Sakhalin.”

There isn’t time for this, Steve can’t possibly debrief the agent or the Marine on the entire sordid history of the hydra infiltration and Project Insight and the Wakanda Movement in whatever spare moments they have. Still, it’s important to lay down the hard fact that President Pierce is no longer someone they should protect. Plus Sarceno runs no small risk of going into shock, and if that happens, Steve isn’t sure he can save him. It’s best to keep him engaged, adrenaline pumping, as they make their escape.

“Captain Rogers, if we’re going to go, we’ve got to go now,” Glasser cuts in, hard and efficient, just like a Marine. She’s been listening to Steve’s brief explanation, the corners of her mouth going tight and her grip adjusting on her firearm as disgust crawls across her face. She’s ready to fight this new, unfamiliar enemy, like any good member of the infantry.

“Alright, here’s our breech order,” Steve quickly explains. “Glasser on point, Sarceno, you’re going to watch our backs. Keep your ears on the comms and relay enemy movements. I’m going to haul you through on this.” He gives the chair a twist from side to side. It rolls easily across the carpet, swivels smoothly around. It likely won’t make it all the way across the North Lawn to the front gate, but it’ll be easier to maneuver through the offices than carrying the wounded man on his back. “Your own private medevac. Ready?”

“Five by five, sir,” Sarceno replies, and produces his own Glock, along with a spare clip from his jacket pocket, which he hands off immediately to Steve. “You’ll need this more than I will.”

Steve accepts the ammo like a pact between them, trusting the man to watch his back as much as the agent trusts Steve to get him out of this alive.

“Oorah!” Glasser barks out, opens the door, and Steve lunges in after her, trailing Sarceno behind him. Glasser immediately finds her target, and makes every bullet count. The first lands in the agent’s chest, the second between his eyes, and he collapses behind the partition of an office cubicle, trailing a bright spurt of blood. Steve drops to the firing position beside the Marine and waits for her signal before they advance to the next office space. She’s in the lead, and he has to trust her in order to keep control of Sarceno.

“They are spreading out between the various Roosevelt Room exits,” Sarceno relays. “Reports of shots fired, but there’s too much chatter. Everyone’s trying to get eyes on Eagle One, so they aren’t coordinating efforts against us.” Sarceno hesitates as they roll forward, and Steve senses the experienced agent isn’t used to what he’s hearing over the comms. “There’s also something happening at the front gate… Cameras going down all over the residence.”

Thank fuck. Bucky and Pepper must already be making headway, which is damn good news because it means Pierce’s puppets are blind to their movements. Even this far apart, Bucky is still saving his ass.

“Roger that,” Steve tells him, without explaining further. There’s no time, they’ve already advanced to the next room and Steve falls again to a firing position at Glasser’s side while she scans the office. The space is set up nearly identical to the last, with cubicle partitions about chest high, screen-locked monitors still aglow after their operators evacuated. The emergency lights strobe in white bursts, like lightning, each flash temporarily blinding Steve as he scans the room, two paces behind the Marine.

The office is entirely vacant, but all of Steve’s instincts send out a warning at once. Before Glasser advances further, Steve stops her with a touch to the shoulder. He glances at Sarceno, who holds his earpiece with one finger as he listens. Sarceno nods knowingly towards an inconspicuous door on the other side of a monitor bank, which must be the mid-access point into the main corridor. Steve leaves Sarceno on the opposite side of a cubicle wall, and closes on the door with Glasser on point.

Approaching a door that is about to be breached is careful work. This is one of the Residence’s many ‘hidden’ doors, that is, designed to be as unobtrusive to the decor as possible with no visible handles or hinges. Still, this door leads to the hallway, so Steve reasons that it must open in, and he and Glasser carefully take up position on either side.

“Cap!” Sarceno suddenly shouts. “They’re breaking through! On our six!”

Before Steve or Glasser can adjust their position, the hidden door flies open, and a Secret Service Counter-Assault Team officer fires into the room. Glasser is ready for it, knocks the gun aside so the line of fire skims wide, just over Steve’s head as he goes low. He kicks a small, wheeled filing cabinet out from under a desk and into the officer’s legs. Caught off-guard, the officer briefly lurches forward, but catches himself just in time for Steve to launch himself up, and land a knee to the officer’s armored chest. In all that tactical equipment, Steve has no hope of doing much damage with just a sidearm, but luckily his own body weight is weapon enough. The officer stumbles back into the rest of his unit, Steve slams the door shut, and wedges the filing cabinet between the door and the cubicle wall, just as Sarceno opens suppressive fire on the dark suited agents that come from the direction of the Roosevelt Room.

“Fuck!” Glasser barks out. “Twelve o’clock!”

Steve clutches his chest with one arm while aiming with the other. He’s already done too much, his body is screaming after the stunt with the filing cabinet, and his arm spasms when he tries to force the trembling down.

“Stand _down_ , Marine!” A dark suited agent bellows, and Steve’s usually unshakable focus takes a hit at the sound of the man calling for their surrender. Is this another one of Pierce’s puppets? Or simply an agent doing his job? Hesitation is devastating on any battlefield, but Steve is no stranger to making split second decisions with the lives of good men and women in his hands. He vaults over the top of the filing cabinet, hears the bullets clatter into the metal behind him, lands on his knees in a perfect slide and aims low. His shot takes the agent in the lower leg, forcing his feet out from under him violently enough to throw him forward with a scream of pain. Not for a second forgetting about his team, Steve immediately curls around in a one eighty turn, and fires down the corridor at the agents closing on Sarceno.

The slide on his Glock locks back, he drops the empty clip and slams his last seventeen rounds into place. There’s no choice, they must advance: Through the far door, the lobby, the foyer, the stairs, the driveway, the North Lawn. Everything will change, as long as Black Panther, Bucky, and all the others are in place, and Steve is in sight of Pennsylvania Avenue.

It would be a hell of a lot easier if they weren’t entirely surrounded.

* * *

**Have a quadro threat of cute chibis on the prowl!!**

The incredible [mgnemesi](http://mgnemesi.tumblr.com/post/176302318908/a-few-weeks-ago-resinonao3-and) drew this gorgeous snow leopard Bucky, getting into some mischief with the demon Bucky as seen in [AraniaArt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniaArt/pseuds/AraniaArt)'s incredible epic story, [Falling's Just Another Way to Fly](https://archiveofourown.org/series/582637). I highly recommend checking that fic out if you haven't yet! 

[mintmintdoodles](https://mintmintdoodles.tumblr.com/post/174652840962/my-most-recent-commission-for-resinonao3-snow) gave Bucky the adorable doodle treatment: 

 

[puddingpong](http://puddingpong.tumblr.com/post/175632004182/a-commission-for-the-amazing-resinonao3-its) captured a feisty snowball fight between Bucky and Steve in this adorable piece! 

[Rizurin](http://rizurin.tumblr.com/) made this adorable chibi Bucky a while back, and I just now got a chance to share him here!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun story! The San Francisco Zoo just brought out their BABY SNOW LEOPARDS today. I'm going tomorrow to visit the little furballs. I can't wait!


	33. Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE:  
> Multiple pieces of artwork on this chapter, along with a video!
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce]

“What are we waiting for?” Brooklyn hisses through his teeth from the station’s front entrance where he’s posted himself as a lookout. “Let’s get out of here.”

“If all you want is to escape then nothing’s stopping you,” Bucky snaps, still working at the switchboard in the station’s front office. This particular terminal is usually only used to deploy the Secret Service agents with attached hunting cats, but according to Shuri, it can also sync with the entire Secret Service network and White House surveillance. Computers are already awkward enough for Bucky to use, but it’s a total fucking pain with only one hand. He clicks away with five untrained and stubborn fingers, taking much longer than he wants, and certainly longer than they’d planned for. Shuri had shown him exactly what to do on the model at the sanctuary, but this isn’t exactly Bucky’s forte.

Bucky glances at the overhead display as he struggles, where a series of smaller screens cycle through the cameras across the grounds. At least the main gate is open. As long as Steve gets Pierce into position, things should take care of themselves.

Bucky’s ability to focus crashes the moment he thinks about his human alone, unprotected against Pierce and his minions. He’s nervous about it, but even worse, he’s distracted, making mistakes. He decides that separating from Steve right before a fight, leaving him surrounded by danger on all fronts, had been a terrible mistake and he never should have allowed it. The sensation that something is going horribly wrong lifts a ridge of fur along Bucky’s tail, like a ghostly finger trailing up his spine.

Finally, something actually executes on screen the way it’s supposed to, making the proper connection with Stark’s servers. Bucky freezes, momentarily in shock that he actually pulled it off, and double checks the notification window just to make sure. Connection complete; Pepper should be able to take it from here.

“Alright,” Bucky puffs out a breath, chest aching from holding it for too long. “That should do it. Let’s get to-”

The overhead display changes, cameras cycling again, replacing the North Lawn images with a feed from the West Wing. Bucky’s mouth drops, and he cries out in alarm before he can stop himself.

Brooklyn asks him something, then shouts at him from the doorway, but Bucky can’t hear the other cat through the sudden rush of panic. Steve hasn’t managed to pull Pierce out onto the North Lawn. Instead, he’s running for his life, two other humans at his side. Bucky slams on the button to manually advance the camera cycles, and watches more and more agents—including a highly armed Counter Assault Team—converge on Steve’s location.

Steve is pinned down. Trapped.

“Head to Pennsylvania Avenue,” Bucky orders Brooklyn, meeting him at the door. He peers out quickly before determining the fastest route to the Oval Office—through the Rose Garden—and tucks his stolen Glock into his thigh pocket. “I’m going after Captain Rogers.”

“What?” Brooklyn blurts out. “Now? Bullshit! Bucky, we have to-”

“Black Panther will meet you there, if you don’t get yourself caught. I’m going,” Bucky says. Then he slips out of the station, denying Brooklyn any further chance to argue. Bucky sprints through the snow on all threes, faster than he ever has before, still cursing his missing arm. Snow is dangerous, it makes everything slippery and numb and leaves an obvious trail, but Bucky doesn’t have time to be careful.

The alarms for the White House grounds continue to wail, a long, straining shriek that forces Bucky’s ears to fold protectively against the side of his head, and the muzzle smothers his ability to scent danger on the air. He may as well be running into battle deaf and blind, but he senses the slight, asymmetrical weight in his pocket, the pistol he stole from the Secret Service, and decides that there is very little that could actually stop him at this point.

He posts tightly against the bowl of a fountain in front of the Rose Garden’s six foot fence, waits a moment as the cold seeps into his bare hand, then leaps easily over the bars. He barely avoids the thorns of the winter-bare branches as he lands, and flattens himself immediately in the tangle of their shadows.

Light from the West Wing hits the frosty landscape of the Rose Garden in sublime golden squares, broken by the individual sashes within the Oval Office’s French doors. Bucky creeps closer, stalking tentatively on his one hand, keeping to the contrasting darkness. It’s already hard to hear anything above the alarms, but the snow buffers the usual nighttime noise, forcing him to strain his ears towards the obvious signs of violence within. A single pane from the French Doors, shattered, along with nearly all the glass from the side windows. A lamp flickering where it’s been knocked off the huge, stately desk. A poinsettia arrangement, toppled from the coffee table in a pile of its own dirt. The rest of the furniture is broken, smashed to pieces against the torn wallpaper. He freezes, catching sight of the first dead human. Thanks to the muzzle, he didn’t smell the blood before laying eyes on the corpses or the splatter against a wall peppered with bullet holes.

There’s an eerie stillness to the scene, with no one left alive to cover this exit. Where is everyone? Surely, Pierce would have posted an agent here, unless he no longer cares about maintaining his precious disguise and is now only interested in eliminating his target. The thought makes the fur on Bucky’s scruff stand on end, and he spins in place when he catches a subtle rustle behind him. It’s no more than the muffled crunch of packed snow under a light footfall, but Bucky has his dagger ready to throw before abruptly freezing.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” Brooklyn’s response comes out petulantly, betraying his age. The small cat tosses snow out of his hair, and Bucky catches sight of the inelegant mess Brooklyn had made, most likely after falling over the edge of that tall fence. The kit’s good with tactics, but not the most agile of Bucky’s cadets. Brooklyn follows Bucky’s gaze, taking in the situation before making a stand. “You don’t give me orders. And I’m not going to let you go after Pierce without me.”

“What makes you think I’m going after Pierce?” Bucky turns back towards the Oval Office, then glances over his shoulder at the roof of the main Residence, trying to do the math. If a sniper had been aiming from the opposite side of the dome… Would Clinton have changed position once he’d realized Steve had gotten stuck? That could mean Steve has at least one more ally, but it’s not enough to face down all of the Secret Service. Besides, the room Steve managed to trap himself in doesn’t have any windows.

“You’re going after Rogers,” Brooklyn states, as he follows at Bucky’s heel. He falls into breech position, staggered to Bucky’s left, without needing to be told. “Rogers is going after POTUS. Why else would you be worried about that dumb human?”

Clever, but Brooklyn had taken enough time to catch up to Bucky that he must have thought long and hard about what Bucky and Steve might be up to. Then again, Bucky knows an excuse when he hears one, and half suspects the younger cat followed him out of some fucked up form of loyalty. He quickly decides it doesn’t matter why Brooklyn decided to back him up as long as he’s here to fight. Bucky flips the dagger, catching it by the blade to present the kit with the handle. If Brooklyn is going to fight, he better be armed, and Bucky tells himself the extra weapon doesn’t do him much good with just one hand. It has nothing to do with how much he still wishes he could tell Brooklyn to sit this one out, with how tight the knot of worry growing in his gut pulls when he thinks about the half-trained kitten going to war beside him.

Besides, he prefers the combat knife, which he can carry in his mouth when he quads.

Brooklyn nods in wordless thanks, and Bucky takes another quick look around. From the security footage, he knows Steve has retreated further into the building—most likely to make his way through the front doors—on the opposite side of the Oval Office. Since Pepper now has control over the surveillance systems, that means the Counter Assault Team and the rest of the Secret Service will be doing a blind sweep-and-clear, starting with the main points of egress and working their way in. If Bucky is going to reach Steve, he should proceed to the front of the building, but he’ll need to take a shortcut to bypass the sweep.

Bucky advances under the colonnade, Brooklyn falling in a tail-length behind. Together, they weave between the fat pillars to alternate their sightlines, then stop at the corner joining the charming little walkway to the massive body of the Residence. Bucky tosses his chin up while arching his tail, to indicate his planned route. Brooklyn blinks in surprise, but readies himself for the boost. The smaller cat coils back on his haunches, then springs forward and up, just in time to make contact with Bucky’s shoulder as Bucky himself lunges. Brooklyn docks easily with the lintel that crosses the rows of white painted columns, then turns and catches Bucky’s hand to help him finish sprinting up the sheer fluting.

Just like that, the two cats are on the roof of the West Wing. They swiftly pad over the snow on silent hands and feet, towards the glare of searchlights and the crackle of gunfire.

* * *

Once the hydra—still dragging around Pierce’s flopping shell like a half-shed snake skin—breaches the administration office where Steve and the others are taking cover, the fight balances precariously closer to their favor. There must be a limit to the number of humans the hydra can control; in its fury, it smashes through the barricaded door just as the Counter Assault Team and plainclothes agents both break through Steve’s perimeter.

The others have more to worry about than the reported traitors the moment they lay eyes on the creature, as the hydra minions also choose that moment to reveal themselves. With unflinching efficiency, those former humans turn their weapons on their own teammates—or at least try to. Not a single member of the Secret Service can be called green by any measure. Sourced from the most elite branches of the United States military, these men and women are well trained, familiar with of the chaos of combat, the absolute best of the best. It doesn’t take long for the humans among them to understand the situation.

They don’t have all the details of the massive creature filling the office with whipping tentacles, or the husk of their former Commander in Chief, or the sound that rumbles through their insides as it shoves its way through the door, but they don’t need orders to know that thing is the enemy. They don’t need orders to understand their unit is compromised, their fellow agents turning weapons on them, no longer fellow Americans, no longer fellow _humans_.

It takes only two—maybe three—heartbeats for them to recognize the threat, and fight back. Then Brock charges in ahead of the writhing mass of lashing grey muscle, and tears through the humans that stop their assault long enough to scream.

That’s when Steve does what he does best.

“The White House has been infiltrated! Converge on my position!” He bellows, after shoving one agent out of harm’s way when their own partner turns to gun them down. Steve shoots the puppet in the head—two successive, efficient shots—and drags the stunned ally back. A few agents adjust their tactics at the sound of his voice, understanding that their lines have been breached; war has reached the homefront. Instinctively, the ex-soldiers start to close in on Steve’s position, so he calls out again, commanding, like he’s used to. “Primary target cannot be killed with bullets but can be slowed down! The sleepers it controls can be taken out of the fight but only for a minute. We need to get this thing out into the open! Counter Assault Team, suppress the primary target; Secret Service, watch for the sleeper agents; Glasser, head on a swivel!”

The others leap to Steve’s call like ships finding port in a storm. An agent that had come in on their six screams when one of the hydra’s barbs pierces her back, breaking through her sternum in a geyser of blood, and a second is nearly decapitated by Brock’s machete. Sarceno tumbles out of his chair, and cries out in agony when he lands directly on his wound, but the careening office furniture is the only thing that distracts Brock long enough for the human to duck out of his way. Glass from one of the cubicle partitions explodes when one of Glasser’s shots goes wide, wasting her last, precious bullet.

“Empty!” She calls out, and immediately falls back to be replaced on point by the same Counter Assault officer that had broken through the midpoint door. He’s armed with a P90, a stubby submachine gun that spits _nine hundred_ rounds per minute. Steve collects Sarceno, who screams as Steve lifts him off the floor. The wounded man has reached the very end of his endurance, and if Steve doesn’t get him someplace safe, he’ll bleed out or die of shock.

Another Counter Assault officer—Steve’d heard one of his team call her Manel—offers suppressive fire as Steve shores up the group’s six, but she swears like a sailor when the hydra’s writhing mass jerks forward, enveloping the corpse of the unfortunate plain clothes agent it had killed. Now out of ammo, Glasser ducks under Sarceno’s other arm and helps Steve maneuver him forward. The door ahead has finally been cleared.

“Go! Go! Go!” Steve urges, and the group makes their way forward, slowly— _too slowly!_ —Glasser grunts when she takes a grazing shot to her exposed shoulder. Another Counter Assault officer is killed, Brock taking this one by the throat with his fangs as the hydra lunges up and around the cubicle walls they had been taking cover behind only moments before.

Steve pushes forward, urges the others on. They make it through, down the stairs, into the grand lobby. The foyer lies ahead of them, beyond the ornate furniture and crimson rugs, and beyond that, the North Lawn.

They don’t make it.

Brock streaks down the staircase bannister, flanking them faster than the Secret Service agent can fire, then skids to a stop with both machetes drawn, mouth frothing with spittle and blood. A pair of stony faced Secret Service agents—more of the hydra’s sleepers—stand on either side of Brock, posted at the foyer door to block their escape.

The Counter Assault officer covering their six turns back, and cries out a warning as the first barbs of the hydra break splinters off the door frame leading to the inner offices. “It’s here!” Manel shouts.

“Stand _down,_ Brock!” Steve commands, after gently easing Sarceno’s weight onto Glasser’s shoulders.

Brock’s grin is manic, like he’s waited his whole life for this moment. He’s close enough that Steve can see the thin halo of gold around his black eyes, the ugly scars puckering the flesh into his patchy hairline. His orange striped tail drifts languidly from side to side, like a hungry flame.

“I don’t listen to orders from traitors,” Brock hisses. The last standing plainclothes agent drops to the firing position at Steve’s hip, shooting at the cat.

Brock leaps to the side, dodging the shot, skids wide, boots leaving a black streak against the polished, white marble floor, and lunges. Since the agent had gone low, Steve had aimed for the two sleepers, had hit one, but had missed the other. He watches the tactical arc of Brock’s trajectory, but by now Steve is exhausted, wounded, sweat dripping into his eyes, and heart slamming against the creaking cage of his chest. His reaction time is sluggish, and all he can do is wait for the cat to close on him, arms raised defensively in front of his face.

Instead of his arm being taken off by razor sharp machetes, there’s an ear splitting crash of metal. Glasser nearly buckles under the weight of the massive hunting cat where she’s blocked his blow, both hands shaking as she holds aloft her ornamental saber. The metal grinds as Brock furiously presses down on the stubborn Marine, but she kicks him in the gut and he drops back, taken by surprise.

The lobby’s ornate furniture explodes from shots as the sleeper agent at the front door, that dodged Steve initial attack, recovers. He fires, but not at Steve. Instead, Steve screams in frustration when Manel goes down, shot in the back by someone she’d likely trusted with her life only hours before.

Brock shows his teeth again with a fierce snarl, just on the edge of a roar, and rolls the hilts of his machetes over the tops of his hands, measuring their weight, preparing momentum for another bout.

“Hail hydra,” Brock spits, and charges straight for Steve.

Just then, the lobby window explodes. A grey streak collides with Brock midair, sparkling glass and fresh snow tumbling along with them as they crash into the ruined furniture. Steve has no time to react, since the sleeper agent he shot earlier by the door is already reviving. Abandoning all pretense, the creature in human skin jerks upright at all the wrong angles, head twisted to the side like a broken doll. An audible _crack!_ sounds as its jaw drops several inches, face splitting across the bridge of its nose—eye socket to eye socket—and releases the monster inside.

Steve shoves Glasser out of its path as the barbed appendage rockets across the space between them. It strikes Steve just below the collarbone, forcing him back a step as he scrabbles to get a handle on the slippery tentacle. The initial sting of it breaking his skin is almost unnoticeable in the heat of the fight, but the minor pain is followed by a flood of heat—the sting of the same, burning venom he suddenly remembers from Sakhalin—and his limbs grow heavy as his consciousness fogs over. The sleeper agent’s head nearly falls away completely as a bulge travels down the tentacle. Steve screams through gritted teeth, hoping to god he can keep his head long enough to stop the parasite as it burrows through his torn shirt, wriggling into his skin through the hydra’s barb.

Just then, a second feline rockets into the room through the same broken window, snapping the tentacle with his teeth like a hurricane plucking apart loose power lines. The hydra puppet falls backward at the sudden loss of tension and Steve collapses to his knees, tearing the parasite out of his own flesh before it can take hold. The thing writhes between his fingers and oozes dark, putrid fluid, before he crushes it like a bloated leech in his fist. This is just like the thing that had made its home inside Steve, straight from Pierce’s mouth, before Bucky had saved him. It’s smaller, still in its larval state after being so freshly delivered, and Steve looks up sharply to see the tentacle that had been torn from his shoulder. The sleeper agent thrashes where it fell, as if it can no longer balance in its stolen body, as the damaged tentacle trailing from its broken face curls in on itself like burning wax paper, releasing a hiss of gas as it shrinks from the cat’s bite.

The feline, a scrappy runt Steve doesn’t recognize, quickly moves on to his next target. He brings the second sleeper agent down, a dagger flashing in his fist, before burying his teeth in its neck. This one is in slightly better shape, and manages to shake the small cat off its shoulders in a desperate attempt to save itself from his deadly bite. The cat is thrown clear, tearing a ragged chunk from the minion’s human shoulder as he falls, and the creature goes down in a convulsive spasm of limbs, grotesquely wounded. The small cat darts off, already done with the riff raff as he sets his eyes on larger prey.

Steve throws the parasite away, heaves a quick breath, and takes a precious moment to search for Bucky. The cat is squared off with Brock, muzzled and brandishing only a combat knife, so Steve lifts his weapon as he staggers back to his feet. He’s fully prepared to shoot Brock in the back of the head, but the cats lunge for each other and Steve misses his window.

“Fuck!” Bucky is on his own.

Steve tears his gaze away and looks back towards the larger threat, but it seems the hydra’s advance has stalled at the double doors leading from the stairs to the lobby. Its tentacles jerk forward in uneven spasms, recoiling in disgust with every aborted movement forward. It takes Steve moment to realize the second feline is actually the cause of the creature’s hesitation, the horrific monster practically cowering from four-foot-zero-inches of young, angry feline.

Then the cat roars.

It comes out like a tumble of gravel at first, a deep, rapid drumming that quickly builds into a dangerous burst of energy, high enough to split stone. The force of it shears between Steve’s ribs in a way that makes his heart stutter, and he instinctively lowers his weapon in order to protect his chest. It’s not the same as Bucky’s roar—which Steve’s only ever heard a handful of times when the cat’s lost control. This is no general warning, no deep, resonant _boom!_ like Bucky’s roar, but something loosed with the same precision as an arrow. A direct challenge. Even Brock and Bucky wrench apart at the sound, a mutual armistice of hostility as they assess where it came from, both clearly bewildered.

The hydra violently recoils, its mass of undulating limbs clench like a fist, shattering the wooden trim around the doorway. It speaks again, those voiceless words landing between Steve’s ears like a violation.

“ **Kill the cats!** ” It demands. “ **Kill them now!** ”

The two sleeper agents immediately lurch back to their feet, broken limbs and twisted necks at impossible angles as they rise, still blocking Steve’s group of humans from the front door. The one that’d attacked Steve earlier, whose barbed tentacle was snapped apart by the small cat’s sudden appearance, seems to only be half formed, trailing a blackened, shriveled stalk from the bisected eye socket of its human host as it forces itself forward.

Bucky doesn’t waste a second, pouncing on Brock while the other cat is distracted. His combat knife takes a piece out of Brock’s tactical shirt, trailing a thin line of blood in its path, and Brock loses one of his machetes, only to fall back with a flip and recover it just as quickly.

Steve takes stock of his team, now flanked on both sides: one Counter-Assault officer: Danus, with his P90 at the ready. One plain clothes Secret Service agent remains also, Steve heard him called Anand. Sarceno’s still form now lies crumpled against an upturned sofa. Corporal Glasser, saber still clenched tightly in her fist, flicks her gaze between the writhing monstrosity in the doorway and Brock, who has gone to all fours in anticipation of another bout. Bucky’s chest heaves with effort as he sucks in air through the muzzle, and Steve knows what he needs to do.

“Anand, Danus, suppress the individual hostiles!”

“Yes, sir!” The Secret Service immediately turn their weapons the hydra’s sleeper agents, which thrash against the hail of submachine gun fire and individual rounds from Anand’s Glock, barely holding their ground against the onslaught.

“Glasser, you’re with me!” Steve closes the space between himself and Brock, the Marine hot on his heels. Brock has the upperhand on Bucky, pinning him to the floor with one machete locked against Bucky’s knife, the other tangled up by a leg, as Bucky grapples for his life. Brock is wholly occupied with controlling Bucky, thrashing and twisting against his grip, and doesn’t notice the charge until Steve is right on top of them. Steve slams into Brock in a football tackle, throwing his entire weight into the hunter and they go over in a tangle of limbs. Brock recovers first, plants his boot in Steve’s middle and uses the momentum of their tumble to toss Steve over his head. Steve lands badly, the wind driven out of his chest in a rush, but at least Brock lost both machetes. The hunter immediately falls back, dodging Glasser’s blade as it sings through the air in a menacing swipe.

“What are you doing?” Bucky shouts, and flips to his feet in one smooth motion. “Get Pierce to the North Lawn!”

Steve can’t quite answer, because it’s now very hard to breathe, and the edges of Steve’s vision darken, the walls of a tunnel suddenly closing in around him. He shakes his head, staggers to his feet, and Bucky rushes towards him.

“Fuck…” Steve barely has enough breath to force his own voice past his lips. Memories of childhood asthma attacks come back in a rush, as the stress of injury and exhaustion finally catches up with him.

* * *

Bucky knows something is wrong the moment Steve lands, crashing against the hard marble floor before rolling to a stop in a limp heap. Bucky scrambles to his feet, guilt rising hotly inside him as he considers that Steve’d only attacked Brock to come to Bucky’s defense. They just don’t have time for this. Brooklyn can only distract the hydra for so long before it’ll rally alongside those human puppets, and put an end to the small cat’s valiant efforts.

“What are you doing?” Bucky shouts through his building panic. This isn’t part of the plan. They have to move the hydra outside. They can’t win the much larger fight if they keep getting distracted with rescuing each other. “Get Pierce to the North Lawn!”

Steve tries to answer as he struggles up, but only a wet, rasping noise makes it out of his chest, following by an alarming whistle. Bucky is at his side in an instant, shoring up Steve’s weight as the human unbalances.

“You- You have to-” Steve labors to speak, to stand, to even breathe. It hurts just listening to the rattle in that big, strong chest, and Bucky tries to get the human to stop fighting him, to just take a knee for five seconds. Steve shakes his head, and finally gets his arms up. Bucky’s so amped up that he flinches when Steve’s hands approach his face, then gasps at the sudden release of pressure.

The muzzle hits the floor, and Bucky’s senses taper into a fine point. All the fur on his body lifts, a familiar reaction to the consuming presence of the hydra. The window of his vision breaks; glossy marble floors, glittering chandeliers, and the golden furniture blur into halos of light and prisms of shattered color.

The rest of the room dissolves, and the only thing he sees is the hydra. The only thing he smells is the hydra. The only thing he knows is the hydra and the need to kill it. Brooklyn will help. Brock will not.

The hydra pulses, reacting to Bucky’s attention, then screams in a voice that does not belong here, so near the humans they must protect. The compulsion to kill it hits everywhere at once, from the tips of his ears to deep within his bones, so Bucky puts the leather wrapped handle of the combat knife between his teeth and moves. He leaps over everything in his path: gunfire, furniture, people—puppets of the hydra or otherwise—and over the slash of long, red carpet that leads directly towards the undulating mass of evil.

The thing screams again, but Bucky doesn’t understand any words. He doesn’t have to; there is nothing this being of lies can utter that could possibly matter. Bucky dives out of his sprint, turns midair, and lands in a baseball slide beneath a striking appendage. He brings his knife down so hard that it slices through the slippery length of muscle and breaks into the very marble beneath them, pinning the tentacle to the floor. Bucky rotates out of his slide and springs off his feet, just as a second tentacle hurtles towards him. He leaps high, dodging it easily, but lands in a quadding position that leaves his left side exposed to the split tentacle that sliced itself in half to free itself from Bucky’s blade.

Brooklyn crashes into the tentacle, and sinks his teeth into the knot of flesh that snaps towards Bucky’s face. A shriek tears through Bucky’s ears, panicked and unearthly, and in response he loosens the vocal folds in his throat as he sucks in a breath, and roars. It’s been building up for so long, a thunderhead of frustration and anger and fear, he nearly feels carried away with the fury as it releases all at once.

The snapping tentacles clench fiercely against its writhing center, and the husk of President Pierce sloughs free with a gush of red blood. The creature is fully engorged by now, tentacles thick as tree trunks, strong enough to crumble the plaster around it, and rip up the old, wooden floorboards. Bucky crosses over one tentacle, yanking his knife from the floor, vaults high as Brooklyn skids low, and they both latch onto the slippery root. Bucky tastes the sickly sweet bile of its poison as his fangs tear into the scaly flesh, and he locks his jaw to hold the pressure fast. Another unnatural screech erupts from the creature, and the huge tentacle surges up in an arch that shakes both Bucky and Brooklyn free.

Bucky recovers in midair, lightly touching down in a three-point landing, just before diving right back in against the same tentacle as it retracts, finally showing signs of withering against their attack.

Gunfire continues to explode around them like fireworks, little more than a distraction as the humans around them fight on. Brooklyn is small, weaker than Bucky even with a missing arm, but he’s fast and subtle, striking from low positions and using the environment around him to his advantage. An upturned sofa is split nearly in half after he skitters behind it, a chandelier comes crashing down after he leaps high enough to swing off its lower branches. Bucky, in turn, takes on the hydra head-on, defending with his knife and counter-attacking against the hydra’s most powerful weapons with the strength in his jaw.

A dam has been broken, a rush of instinct and fury, and a fresh reminder of feline power. The hydra’s hard work to declaw them, to destroy their families, to end their freedom, only shows how much it fears those things. But Bucky cannot be declawed, he cannot be defanged, his hearing cannot be stolen, his tail cannot be cropped—no matter how much the hydra told him to abandon those things. Most of all, the loyalty of his kin: Brooklyn is Pietro and Tripp and Becca, an extension of himself and every feline that came before them, unbent, unbroken.

There is no use for words as they work together to control the fight, but through all the raw instinct comes a cry Bucky can’t ignore: _Steve._ That damn human can’t stay out of trouble for one whole minute.

* * *

The moment Bucky takes off, Steve falls to his hands and knees, sucking wind. He doesn’t have time to follow the cat’s flight towards the horror at the end of the lobby, and instead turns to help Glasser with Brock, who still spits and rages defensively as he avoids her. It’s not enough, not _nearly_ enough, and even as Steve lifts his own Glock, Brock slips behind Glasser’s defenses and snaps at the human’s throat. The high collar of her uniform is the only thing saving her jugular from being torn out as Brock violently tosses his head, fangs clamped down for the kill.

Glasser retches, gagging on the pressure, but Brock releases her the moment Steve gets off a shot, flattening himself against the floor right before Steve could take his head off. Brock whips around, a ball of muscle knotting hard over to retrieve one machete, then brings it up just in time to meet Glasser’s downward swing of her saber. In a reverse of their earlier position, Brock now kicks her in the pelvis, knocking her back hard enough send her only remaining weapon spinning out of reach, then leaps away when Steve fires again.

Felines make slippery targets; even if Steve hadn’t been holding himself together by a thread, Brock would be hard to hit. By nature, cats can move extremely fast. Compared to humans, they duck and weave in unpredictable patterns, and turn on a dime. It’s the reason the military trains hunting cats to begin with, to give soldiers a living, breathing weapon that very few humans can defend against. Brock makes a daring, forward dash to breach their lines, and only falls back when Steve manages to land a single, grazing shot across the cat’s thigh. Meanwhile, Danus is barely holding off the two, shambling sleeper agents, still advancing forward, slowly closing on their central position like a noose, as Anand reloads.

No plan survives first contact with the enemy, but Steve has to finally admit that everything is quickly veering spectacularly off mission. Bucky and the other cat tear chunks out of the monstrous hydra, but the mission isn’t to just kill it. In order to free the felines— _all_ felines—they need to kill the prejudice it’s instilled. They need to kill the lies, break the machine. The video feed Pepper’s boosted through Stark’s social channels (with the help of Steve’s hacked cellphone, and Bucky’s access to the Secret Service’s computers) won’t be enough. That’s only a single component of their plan, and if they don’t get out to the North Lawn soon, T’Challa and the rest of the Wakanda Movement will be swiftly crushed.

Steve gathers up as much breath as he can. “Bucky!” He shouts. “Lead him out! To the North Lawn!” Thin as his voice is, there’s no way to know for sure if Bucky hears him before Brock pounces, and all Steve can do next is try to scream, and fail.

Steve doesn’t go down without a fight, managing to lock up Brock’s wrists just before they land, barely avoiding the razor edge of Brock’s machete. The old hunter is relentless, and quickly changes tactics. He sinks his teeth into Steve’s shoulder and Steve finally screams. His vision tunnels again, flaking apart at the edges, shocking pain from the ripping fangs turning his entire world to ash. Steve kicks and struggles, punches Brock in the ear, trying to hit every weak point he can possibly think of in order to buy some time. Still, a small, tired voice inside him is comfortable with the fact that if this is it, if this is how Steve dies, then at least he can be proud of what he fought for.

The thunderclap of a gunshot immediately silences those thoughts, and Steve jerks at the startling sensation of the impact. The world is still overcast, clouds swirling in his vision, but Brock unlocks his jaw, releasing Steve’s mangled shoulder. He sits heavily on Steve’s legs, like gravity took him by surprise. The cat’s ears are driven forward as a look of frank curiocity flickers in his golden eyes. Brock lifts his arm to examine the hole in the side of his chest. He seems bewildered by it, bringing crimson-stained fingers away as if he’s never once seen his own blood before. The wound is bad, _very_ bad, and Steve watches the dark blood pump out in thick spurts with each successive beat of Brock’s slowing heart.

“What?” Brock utters, then quickly clamps his hand over the gushing wound, as if he can force the blood back into his body with brute strength. He coughs and a great deal more blood pours from his mouth. His face twists in fury, and he glares down at Steve as if he’s to blame. “No!” The impact of a second shot throws him clear, and Brock hits the marble floor like a rag doll. He’ll never get back up.

Being suddenly free of the hunter’s unyielding bulk seems to do little good. Steve’s limbs take on weight like a leaky ship at sea, sensation starting to fizzle from his fingertips to his toes. He barely manages to turn over in time to see Bucky lower the gun. Bucky’s face is painted with shock, but he drops the pistol and flips into a side tuck, just as the hydra behind him attacks once more. Its motions are slow by now, dragging, limbs turning that putrid shade of black that can only mean one thing: the cats are actually winning.

The small cat with Bucky snaps at the limb that tried to take Bucky unawares, but then Bucky yanks him away. He gathers up the small kit like a football under one arm, and sprints towards the front doors.

So, they heard Steve after all. He lets his head drop to the floor, proud.

* * *

Steve’s words tug at the sense of duty instilled in Bucky from the moment he stepped out of his breeder’s house and into the military. It drags one foot out of the wild space he’d occupied to slaughter the hydra and back towards their mission objective. It’s not impossible, he thinks, fighting to stay focused even as he recovers his knife and slashes at another spasming limb. The hydra is flailing. There’s no more careful maneuvering, no more insidious plots, just the enraged twist of limbs and blindly striking barbs, chasing after the felines as they work it down. He can taste it in the air, its fear, knowing it’s already lost the fight, and if Brooklyn and Bucky bolt outside, the thing is sure to follow.

Steve’s scream of pain scatters Bucky’s thoughts, piercing his heart with pinpoint accuracy. Bucky can feel it, like tearing away from a wall of velcro, like splitting his soul in two, as he turns away from instinct and duty, leaving the hydra with Brooklyn for a few, precious seconds.

Missing the shot isn’t an option. This is the terrible reality that all Brock’s choices and betrayals have led him to. Even though there is a wrongness to the feel of the gun in his hand, Bucky finds that pulling the trigger is surprisingly easy. There is no regret, like he may have had the few times he’d had to pull a trigger when he’d been trapped in Karpov’s tenement, a lifetime ago. He has no sentimentality to spare for the fellow hunter. Unlike the other agents around them, unlike Sitwell and even Ward, the only influence Brock is under is that of a desperate feline, denying all his natural instincts to follow a leader that would see his own race exploited. As soon as Bucky’s muzzle had been removed he could tell, Brock hadn’t been poisoned or corrupted, hadn’t been infected with the parasite that destroys souls. Brock may have been permanently muzzled by whatever cocktail Dr. Lukin cooked up, but he isn’t a mindless drone. Instead, his scent oozes terror, strong enough for him to break with his base instincts to kill this writhing nightmare and betray his natural allies against it. There is no level of blasphemy that could have turned Brock further away from forgiveness.

Brock is stunned at first, jerking sharply sideways when the bullet strikes him in the exposed line of ribs under his arm.

“What?” Brock growls out, then vomits blood. “No!” His attention snaps back down at Steve and his blood stained fangs flash in outrage so Bucky fires again.

In a way, Bucky is also choosing a human to follow rather than his own, driving instincts. In a way, Bucky is also betraying another feline, but his devotion to Steve is based on love, rather than driven by a crushing fear of his own place in the world. It’s something Brock had never understood, and now never will.

Brooklyn shouts a warning, and Bucky immediately drops the gun, then catapults over the massive tentacle that comes crashing down where he had been standing. Rather than striking back in riposte, Bucky dives after Brooklyn. He catches the smaller cat around the waist, and hauls him back, teeth snapping at a length of retreating tentacle. Brooklyn thrashes under his arm, growling, driven mad by the obstructed instinct to kill the hydra, but they must disengage from the fight.

“Stand down!” Bucky snarls at Brooklyn. “This isn’t the mission!”

“Fuck the mission!” Brooklyn screams, and bites the meat of Bucky’s arm so hard he stumbles, and nearly drops the furious kit.

They need to lead it out, but Bucky can’t leave Brooklyn or Steve, and the moment he reaches Steve’s side, his human whimpers, “Buck… Bucky…” Steve’s voice is so thin and vulnerable that Bucky doesn’t know how to answer.

“Damn it,” Bucky hisses, dropping Brooklyn to his feet and snagging ahold of his collar. He yanks Brooklyn close, leaning in until they are nose to nose. “Stand down! That is an order!”

Brooklyn’s pupils are shot wide, his ears trembling in frustration as he struggles against Bucky’s grip with both arms. They don’t have much time. Even now, the hydra is already recovering and shoving itself forward, and soon he’ll have no choice but to release the kit in order to help Steve up.

“Steve!” Bucky begs, dropping to his knees and dragging Brooklyn with him. He bunts the top of his head into Steve’s shoulder, and Steve finally props himself up on his side. “That’s it! You have to stand. We need to get you out of here!”

Then a Marine, one of the presidential honor guards, ducks under Steve’s arm and hauls him to his feet. “I’ve got him,” she says, and turns to the cats. “How do we stop this thing?”

Bucky swallows, suddenly realizing she’s asking him for orders. A human, a Marine, an officer. Bucky swiftly takes stock of the room. There’s only one Counter Assault officer still standing, three motionless humans lay scattered on the floor, presumably Steve’s other allies. Two of the hydra’s minions are still mostly up, one trailing the ruined half of its own greasy tentacles, and the other wearing its human skins in tatters.

“We need to get the hydra to the North Lawn,” Bucky quickly tells her, and gives Brooklyn’s collar another hard yank when he tries to nip at his arm again. “The Wakanda Movement is there, waiting. Brooklyn!” Bucky yanks again, this time looking the kit in the eyes. Brooklyn stops struggling for just a moment, breathing fiercely but finally listening. “You and I are clearing the route. Do you understand?”

Brooklyn nods, clenching his teeth as he forces himself to comply, and Bucky releases his collar.

The Marine’s eyes go wide at the mention of the Movement, and for a split second she looks like she may argue, then she turns to shout at the human Counter Assault officer still holding the line against the two drones. “Fall back on us! We’re breaking through to the North Lawn! The SCFs are in the lead!”

“Yes, ma’am!” The officer shouts, complying without question, and closes on their position without lowering his weapon, even as the hydra finally breaks the door frame enough to squeeze its massive form into the lobby.

“Go! Go!” Bucky shouts, and the Marine staggers forward under Steve’s weight as Bucky and Brooklyn sprint for the door. They split off to either side and Bucky spins in midair to dodge a wildly swinging tentacle from one of the minions still guarding the doors. Its human husk is malformed, pockmarked by bullet holes, but the stalk of its tentacle remains, sweeping out in front of it like a giant feeler. Bucky slices the barbed tip clean off with his knife as he lunges for the creature, then tears the tentacle out of its broken face with his teeth. Hot poison rushes into Bucky’s mouth, sweet and noxious and Bucky spits a mouthful of it out onto the plush, red carpet. He turns just in time to see Brooklyn drag the second one to the floor, thrashing his head from side to side to work his fangs through its pulsing flesh, stopping it for good.

The Secret Service agent kicks open the front doors to the West Wing and they charge outside into the freshly fallen snow. Bucky stops short, alongside the others, his breath coming out in thick, frosty clouds in the frigid air. Alternating splashes of red and blue reflect against the glistening white powder from the strobing sirens of the Secret Service vehicles, abandoned there with doors hanging open. Bucky had expected more agents, even another Counter Assault Team in place to stop them, but the area is wholly abandoned, and in the distance, towards Pennsylvania Avenue, the reason quickly becomes clear.

“What the hell…” The Marine whispers. Emergency vehicles line the northernmost fence, forming a barricade against a swelling mob of protestors. Human and feline Secret Service alike hold the line like riot police, attempting to shout orders into the crowd that go utterly unheeded.

“Don’t stop!” Bucky orders, and the humans obey, making their way down the cleared, paved road towards the chaos. Both the northwest and northeast visitor gates are standing wide open, thanks to Bucky’s helpful Secret Service dispatcher from earlier. There are felines on either side of the fence, the Secret Service hunters clad in dark tactical gear, the protestors flinging precious collars back in those cats’ faces.

Somewhere in there is T’Challa and Shuri, sharing the feed from Stark Industries, replaying the scene in the Oval Office of Steve’s confrontation with the supposed president of the United States.

If all has gone according to plan, it would have started with the felines in the sanctuary, glued as always to the televisions, watching the hacked feed as it’d unfolded. The news would then have rapidly spread throughout free and collared cats alike: the human president is a _monster_. His mission to crush feline freedom is made plain, by his own admission.

It most likely wouldn’t have taken much for the last line of human control to crumble, for felines to take to the streets with the clear instructructions from Black Panther. Ever since Project Insight executed across the country, felines of America have been balancing on the edge of a knife, and surprisingly, many human companions along with them. Thanks to Pepper, thanks to Steve’s hidden repeater in his cell phone, thanks to Bucky tapping into the Secret Service surveillance feed, thanks to Black Panther’s reach and influence, everyone in America now knows the truth. Now, spread out along the gates to the White House, they’ll be able to see the monster for themselves. The hunters with the Secret Service are the last remaining piece on the board, straddling that line between feline loyalty and human conditioning, between what they’ve heard and what they see: a mob of feline aggressors they’ve been told are terrorists, versus a united community of felines that scream they are free.

Bucky can’t be sure how those seasoned hunters will react, knowing now how desperate Brock had been to please his human keepers. Still, the Wakanda Movement is here in force, just as they’d planned. It’ll have to be enough.

“That’s our reinforcements,” Bucky huffs out, as the group heads towards the fountain in the center of the North Lawn. “Just a little closer!”

That’s about when the entire front face of the West Wing colonnade explodes behind them, glass and plaster rupturing with the thrash of massive tentacles. The voiceless screech ruptures the air around them as the meat of the creature spills out, crushing the pillars in its oily coils as it advances. Bucky loses focus again and skids to a stop in the snow, overwhelmed by the call of instinct that demands he attack. He forces himself to take a step back, and he shouts at Brooklyn to do the same.

The two of them together are not actually enough to stop this creature. The seething mass of hatred and lies smashes everything in its path, the Secret Service cars and SUVs and even the smaller fountain in front of the West Wing driveway.

The thing reaches inside Bucky—reaches inside _all_ of them—and speaks in that terrible, unnatural way. **“Ungrateful chaff! We gave you _order_!”**

Sudden, terrible silence reaches across the lawn, the people gathered along the street, pressing against the gates, frozen in place. Every feline and every human, civilian or otherwise, are all now side-by-side, staring in equal parts awe and horror towards the West Wing.

The Secret Service hunting cats watch with open eyes, as if seeing the entire world for the first time. They can hear it too, revulsion twisting up their lips in an open snarl as they realize, despite their deadened senses, that this creature is, and always has been, their natural enemy. None of them are more loyal to their uniforms than to that basic instinct. None of them are like Brock.

 **“We gave you _freedom_ from tribal barbarism! We took your prejudice and fear of the other and directed it at these animals to spare you the horrors you’d commit to your fellow humans, and _still you fight us_!” ** The hydra towers above them now, thirty feet tall and growing. Bucky’s pulse beats in his throat, and he staggers under the weight of the horrible words until Steve grabs his hand. Bucky feels his eyes burn with the effort of seeing the thing, and oddly, at the same time, feels the snow leak in through the fabric of his pants and soak his feet. Steve is breathing hard beside him, the Marine still propping him up on his opposite side. **“Why! Why do you _insist_ on staying by the side of these animals?”**

“Because!” Steve shouts out in defiance of his injuries. “Either _all_ of us are free, or _none_ of us are!”

That’s when a different instinct calls to Bucky, something wild, something he can’t stop. He takes in Steve’s strength, the conviction, the faith of the others around him, and drops into the snow with an arched back. With renewed courage he releases a roar like no other, sends all his power thundering out of his chest in a long, rising call to arms.

Each and every feline answers.

* * *

Bucky’s roar splits the night air and the creature’s heinous words abruptly stop, like a book snapping shut. The roar hits Steve like a punch to the gut, both he and Glasser double over, as Danus dry heaves with his eyes screwed shut. The deep resonance paralyzes the humans, joints locking up with primal fear that reaches beyond anything rational. It echoes across the North Lawn, flurries of fresh snow leaping into the night sky, gravity itself upset by the vibration of molecules in the air.

Then a paradigm suddenly shifts, and the other felines—once too terrified to unleash their natural vocalizations around humans—answer Bucky’s solitary cry with roars that can no longer be held back by fear or muzzles. The sound is so loud it takes on a shape of its own, massive, like a building collapsing, like a tidal wave. Human agents double over, useless, and the felines rocket through the open gates, leap over the fence, fly across the grass and snow and the pavement with the double, dark streaks of T’Challa and Shuri leading the charge.

It’s a war, a medieval battle fought right here on the White House lawn, only there are no thundering hooves, no clashing swords and shields, but nature in its raw fury, coming home. All Steve can do is watch as the battle heaves up around him. The hydra vibrates in impotent fury, screaming at his minions, who throw themselves against the rising tide of enemy felines. In the swirling chaos of the battle, Steve spots a subtle streak of red, just before the _crack!_ of a sniper rifle brings down one of the sleeper agents. A wave of felines crashes over the single minion as it reveals itself, and quickly rip its tentacles out of its mouth by the root.

Steve looks up, finds the familiar dark shape perched right next to the White House dome, sniper rifle trained out on the crowd. Clinton fires again, and this time another puppet goes down right as it turns to kill its stunned, human colleague. Steve spots her then, weaving through the violence like a dancer outpacing raindrops. Natasha Romanoff ignores most of the people around her, instead targeting individuals, flagging them to her hunter, and _crack!_ Another shot, another minion exposed.

The felines surge forward, and Bucky slips in among them, smooth as a ribbon, as the snarling mass of fury overtakes the lashing whips of the hydra. Not all felines are capable fighters, slower house cats and the weak meet an abrupt end in the unfamiliar violence, crushed by tentacles, impaled on sharpened barbs, or shot by the sleeper agents subtly separating from the humans trying to help. Snow churns up under the brutality and confusion, mud and blood quickly transforming the pristine lawn into a dark slurry.

Steve and his small team of survivors stay posted on the rim of the North Lawn’s massive fountain, clinging to it like a buoy in an stormy ocean, and finally the fist around Steve’s chest begins to loosen its grip.

“We need to help them,” Steve tells Glasser, as Danus holds his weapon at the ready but doesn’t look like he knows where to aim it. “We need to stop the other humans—the ones that the hydra controls.”

“How?” Says Danus. His breath comes out in ragged clouds before the frigid wind rips them to shreds. The icy cold reminds Steve of Sakhalin even as he tries to reassess this fresher battle.

 _That’s the eternal question of urban warfare_ , Steve bitterly concedes. Humans can’t identify hostiles by scent, like felines. For every sleeper agent that Clinton brings down with his rifle, forcing out the monster lurking inside, another two seem to reveal themselves by killing cats or human allies. It’s even worse than on Sakhalin. At least in Russia, the US and Japanese allies have uniforms, and it’s the civilian population they have to watch out for. If only the humans and the cats could—

“I’ve got it,” Steve blurts out. “We need all the humans to fall back. Let the cats fight on their own.” Glasser looks startled by the strategy, so Steve quickly elaborates. “There’s almost nothing we can do to help them, except to get out of their way. Let the cats lead!”

Danus and Glasser exchange a glance as that settles in, then Danus relays the command through his radio. At the same time, Steve pulls out his phone, and watches the text messages bounce across his screen. Pepper Potts is still tuned into his phone, still sharing information over Stark’s entire network, and got the message loud and clear. The order has a ripple effect in the crowd as its shared everywhere—radios, cellphones, and shouts rising above the noise of the mob. More and more humans—Capitol Police officers, Secret Service agents, Counter Assault Teams, and even civilians caught up with their feline companions—remove themselves from the midst of warring cats, leaving only the hydra-infected humans behind.

Steve, Glasser, and Danus retreat along with the crowd towards Pennsylvania Avenue, as the tempo of Clinton’s sniper shots increases. As the swirl of familiar human scent and noxious hydra poison untangle, the cats start to divide their efforts. The strongest—including the hunters wearing Secret Service uniforms—leap into the fray against the massive beast, lunging its indistinct mass across the North Lawn, while the smaller cats turn sharp fangs on the puppets wearing human flesh.

It ends quickly after that.

Huge tentacles come crashing down like felled trees, snapping with leftover energy and disconnected nerves before putrefying into greasy smears. The number of sleeper agents thin out, leaving more cats free to throw themselves against the main enemy. Back behind the line, humans record the action on their phones, relay the staggering, world changing news on their radios.

Steve does what he can, helps control the narrative by repeating his story again and again to anyone who will listen: The president of the United States has been this creature for years. It’s some kind of body snatcher, called hydra. Anyone could be turned into one of its minions. Its goal is to subjugate humans and humanoid felines alike. It hates felines, and it wants humans to hate felines, because felines are the only ones immune to its poisonous influence. He has no idea how many there are.

 _And who are you?_ Comes the inevitable question, and, _How do you have any authority at all to speak about the president? What do you know of Project Insight or the cat uprising?_

He is Captain Steve Rogers with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and he could not have revealed this creature if it hadn’t been for the Winter Soldier, Black Panther, Tony Stark, and countless other cats that have given everything to save humanity from the hate and fear it unknowingly embraced.

* * *

  **Black and white artwork edition!!**

 

[Sulasaferoom](https://sulasaferoom.tumblr.com/post/175421697271/a-snow-leopardbucky-for-resinonao3-3) is a master of Paint Tool Sai! She draws the most gorgeous moody Bucky faces, including this profile image that I use on a number of social media accounts!

 

[Artist Feifei](http://cindyfxx.tumblr.com/post/175631132307/stuckyfanarthow-to-draw-a-snow-leopardbucky) drew this incredible snow leopard Bucky and Steve cuddles, and cindyfxx shared the process video as well!  

 

[thesummer-soldier](http://thesummer-soldier.tumblr.com/post/159691983286/snow-leopardbucky-taking-a-well-deserved-catnap) is an incredibly talented artist, and captured Bucky's more cat-like states perfectly in these drawings! 

 


	34. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Multiple pieces of artwork on this chapter!
> 
> GLOSSARY:  
> Section 8: a category of discharge from the United States military, used for a service member judged mentally unfit for service.  
> TDY: Temporary Duty (or Temporary Duty Assignment) refers to travel assignments at a location other than the employee's permanent duty station (such as going on a special mission like Operation Lemurian Star)  
> PT: Physical Training  
> FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition  
> KIA: Killed in Action  
> BX: Base Exchange (the general store for buying items for military personnel)  
> RNS: Russkiye Narodinye Sili (Russian Motherland Forces) the Soviet insurgent forces that work against the United States/Japanese occupation of Russia.  
> CO: Commanding Officer  
> MRE: Meals Ready To Eat (totally disgusting freeze dried horror meals. Seriously, so gross.)  
> JCS: Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> J-5: the Strategic Plans and Policy directorate of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Joint Staff J5 proposes strategies, plans, and policy recommendations to the CJCS to support her provision of "best military advice" across the full spectrum of national security concerns to the President.  
> CJCS: Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff  
> DJS: Director of the Joint Staff [Lt Gen. Nicholas James Fury]  
> CFC: Center for Feline Control  
> CFC L&L: Center for Feline Control Licensing and Lodging (commonly known as the “kennel.”)  
> SHIELD: Strategic Homeland Blah Blah Spies Blah  
> SCF: Soldier Companion Feline  
> SCF-h: Soldier Companion Feline (hunter occupational specialty)  
> SCF-a: Soldier Companion Feline (airman occupational specialty)  
> POTUS: President of the United States [Alexander Pierce - HE DEAD]

Bucky doesn’t know where he is, just that he has to get to Pietro before the CFC agent executes the young, naive kitten. Pietro is being held somewhere out of sight, crying for help. Bucky searches and searches, but can’t find him and now he’s out of breath, trapped in the kennel at the receiving dock. He’s surrounded by other felines, miserable, faceless beasts who wouldn’t dare lift a finger to intervene. The sound of the gunshot drives Bucky from sleep, his shout of fear stoppered by his own heart, lodged high in his throat. Helpless tears prickle his eyes, and he takes a huge breath just before the misfiring panic swallows him whole.

“Hey,” Steve whispers, and strokes the length of Bucky’s back, trailing all the way down, over the fur standing up along his tail. “You okay, Buck? You were having a nightmare.”

A nightmare. Of course.

Pietro’s already dead, and there’s nothing Bucky can do to stop that from being true. He retracts his claws before Steve can see the holes in the bedspread, and reaches for his phone.

“I’m fine,” Bucky lies, and slides off of their bed. “Just. Need some air.”

“It’s three in the morning,” Steve cautiously informs him, trying his hardest not to sound as if he’s asking Bucky not to disappear again.

Bucky doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing, and leaves their bedroom without looking up from his phone. He doesn’t want to see whatever concerned expression might be crossing Steve’s face. He’s still forcing down his brittle grief, pushing it to the pit of his stomach, where it belongs. Steve’s sorrow and confusion add too much weight to an already hazardous pile of Things Bucky Doesn’t Know How To Fix.

They’ve lived in this apartment for a month already, but it still feels new; all the smells are unfamiliar, the shadows out of place. The night time noises from the alley next door aren’t anything out of the ordinary for a pre-dawn New York, but they grate on his nerves as he pads across the thin area rug in their tiny living room.

If this had been Steve’s DC apartment, Bucky would’ve just gone back to his own room, and hid under a blanket of quiet solitude. He hardly blames Steve for wanting to leave that place, with General Rogers breathing down their necks, but it’s too bad all the human can afford in New York is this cramped one bedroom. Sooner or later, Bucky will have to figure out how to make his own income so that he can help. His standards have certainly adjusted since he luxuriated in the much tinier Winter Soldier dorm.

The window, overlooking the sliver of damp brick and crumbled asphalt of the alley, is original to the building, painted over so many times they hadn’t even been sure it could be pried open at all when they’d first moved in. Bucky uses his left hand to force it up, the wood still swollen with moisture after the recent, humid rain. His new arm whirrs softly as it rises above his head, black plates shifting to reveal the golden finish of the insulated inner workings. He doesn’t remember what the metal is called, but Shuri and Tony Stark had got in a specular fight over it, with Shuri insisting it’s the best option to ensure longevity of both his new implant and state of the art prosthetic. Bucky hadn’t listened too closely, at the time, but he’s glad Shuri won the argument. Maybe it’s a little flashy, but Bucky likes the gold.

Plus, if he’s being honest with himself, it helps make up for the fact that he lost the red star. Steve had seemed so pleased to leave everything from the Winter Soldier program behind, that Bucky didn’t have the heart to ask for it. It just seems silly to bring it up now.

It doesn’t matter, Bucky tells himself, climbing outside. It’s not like the Winter Soldier program had ever really meant anything.

The fire escape may look terrible, blotchy with its own legacy of paint layers and rust, but it’s sturdy enough to hold the weight of one, cranky cat. Bucky settles his back against the bars of the railing and sucks in a deep breath through his nose. It’s not pleasant, there’s a dumpster at the end of the alley reeking of hot, wet garbage, but it still feels good. He releases that breath and takes another, then another, before finally opening his eyes and gazing through the cage that the fire escape landing makes around him instead of reading through the half-dozen texts from Tony.

There’s no practical reason for the unsatisfied ache that drives Bucky out of bed in the middle of the night. After everything that had happened last December, felines received more than they could have hoped for and Bucky has no right to feel anything but relief. Vice President Talbot has taken over the administration, Project Insight had been immediately halted, and all humanoid felines residing within the borders have been automatically granted ‘inalienable rights of citizenship to the United States of America’. Even Tony Stark has been released by now, Stark Industries cleared. Best of all, the CFC has been cracked open like an egg after further investigation had revealed its ties to Pierce’s finances. A lot of the work being done by Pepper Potts and Colonel Rhodes revolves around unthreading the actual services that the CFC provides from the funnel of corruption it’d provided for the president.

Steve himself had hauled Lukin out of the Red Room, but the doctor had wound up killed by Agent Romanoff. Apparently, he’d tried to escape, and after it was done, she’d surprised Steve by claiming it’d been personal. Steve hasn’t heard from her or her hunter since, and Bucky knows this bothers Steve. Bucky himself had felt surprisingly cold at the news about Lukin. Thinking about Pietro and Trip, killed so close to the end, he can’t help but wonder what the point was for all that violence. Lukin hadn’t even been one of the hydra’s minions. He had simply been convinced that what he had been doing with his experiments and torture was for the good of humanoid felines everywhere.

Like Lukin, the hydra’s influence hasn’t been purged as easily as its minions, and lingers in subtle, insidious ways. Every time Bucky notices a human stare at his bare throat, or change direction on the street to avoid crossing his path, he’s reminded how easily the hydra’d convinced humankind that felines are beneath them. How easily it’d convinced the cats themselves that they should be grateful for that subservient life. Freshly minted citizenship doesn’t mean much to cats who’ve spent their whole lives in collars, or to the humans that suddenly have to pay for their services. And, as with all things run by the government, the ‘automatic’ process is fraught with complications, bureaucracy, and long, miserable struggles by both humans and felines alike. Plenty of felines are too old or too scared or too adapted to collared life to have any notion of what to do with this strange new idea of _personhood_ , like Bucky’s mother. Plenty of humans are devastated at the entire collapse of the breeding industry, like Freddie Barnes.

It’s why the CFC is still around at all, sorting through the social upheaval, providing contracts for felines that refuse to leave their keepers.

It’s also why Steve’s job with the VA is so important, helping ex-SCFs decide if they want to remain civilians, or re-enlist as volunteer soldiers, or apply for services now open to them as citizens. Bucky himself had experienced a burst of unfamiliar hope at the thought of rejoining the military, but it had been a fleeting urge. The military is part of a past that Bucky has since lost all fluency for. He can’t go backwards into that life, any more than he can regrow his flesh and blood arm. Coming to that conclusion had been frightening, and somehow made Bucky’s current living situation all the more foreign. Being lost sucks.

Bucky brushes his throat with his metal thumb, the phantom tension flaring again of a collar he hasn’t worn for months, then rubs the unwelcomed prickle of tears from his eyes. The fear is misleading, just more useless anxiety that has no business turning him inside out.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice makes Bucky jump. The human leans his chin on his folded arms, just barely poking his nose into the chilly outside air. “Sorry. Did I sneak up on you?”

Bucky chuffs out a laugh, his heart rate already going back down. It really is good to see Steve, to hear his voice. Apparently, needing air hadn’t actually meant Bucky needed it _alone_. “First time for everything, I guess.”

“Go, me,” Steve says with a grin. His eyes are heavily lidded, his scarred body hidden beneath an old hooded sweatshirt, and he barely suppresses a yawn before he continues. “Look I was going to save this for the morning. Make you breakfast in bed and all. Maybe it’s not really the kind of surprise you’d like, though. Um...”

Bucky watches Steve struggle, not sure at all where the human is going with all this. “...yes?”

“After I got your file from the Barnes’ I found out when your actual birthday is. March tenth.” Steve pauses with a fresh smile, and glances up at the predawn sky. “Today.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, so thrown off by the news that he has no idea what else to say. Feline ages are established by the CFC, included in their license data. The actual day is otherwise completely irrelevant. It hadn’t occurred to him that it might be meaningful to discover the real date, but if today is his birthday then he’s just turned thirty one years old. _Again_. That’s not great news. Thirty five is the age the military starts testing SCFs for fitness to remain active. Steve is still watching him, apparently expecting more of a reaction, so Bucky searches for something to say. “...Okay.”

“Alright, well. I got you something. Hang on.” Steve hauls himself up with a small grunt, moving stiffly. He insists he’s recovered from the gunshot wound, but Bucky thinks he’s full of shit. Besides, Bucky figures the human body can only take so much, and Steve has already taken _so_ much. Bucky blinks back stars when Steve flicks on the overhead light, and his ears pick up at the sound of the human rummaging around in the refrigerator.

“Um. It’s. Well. Lorraine helped me pick it out, actually,” Steve explains from across the living room where their cramped kitchenette sits next to the apartment’s front door. He puts one box on the counter, a small pink cube that Bucky already knows is from the amazing bakery down the street, then slides a second one beside it, wrapped in bright paper. Steve kicks the fridge door shut with his heel and carries the boxes over to the windowsill. “Do you want to come in? Or. I guess if you wanted—”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, dropping back inside the apartment onto his hands as his hindquarters catch up. He knows Steve doesn’t like it when he sulks outside.

Besides. Presents.

Steve leaves both gifts on the rug in the small space between them, then leans back against the foot of the sofa. Bucky’s stomach forces his hand, and he selects the pink box to open first. The living room is too small for a coffee table, but Bucky pulls the gift into his lap as he climbs aboard the chair they brought with them from DC. Inside is a single cupcake with a little plastic sign set into the creamy frosting that says _Happy Birthday!_ in bright red and gold letters.

“Can I eat it now?”

“It’s _your_ birthday,” Steve laughs, his concern apparently evaporating and Bucky suspects he’s being teased. “You can do whatever you want. Just don’t—well, then.”

“Mm?” Bucky asks, his mouth full after shoving the entire cupcake inside all at once.

“...Don’t give yourself a stomach ache.”

Bucky tries not to laugh as he chews into the fluffy dessert, then inhales sharply when a delectable cream filling surprises him from its moist center. This must be a new kind of cupcake. The best kind of cupcake. He’s happy he’s managed to get frosting on his nose, just for the chance to lick it off later. It’s even worth Steve’s tired, wry smile as he shakes his head, and scoots the second box closer before drawing his knees up under his chin. He looks uncharacteristically uncertain of himself. Small, propped up by the sofa at his back.

“Happy Birthday, Bucky Barnes.”

 _Barnes_. The last name feels strange. Citizenship meant social security numbers. Last names. And birthdays, apparently. Most felines took on the last names of their keepers, or as in Bucky’s case, their breeder. He doesn’t mind, since he knows his mother is a Barnes as well, even though he’d been able tell that at the time that Steve hadn’t liked it one bit. Now that it’s done, Steve’s accepted it, like he’s accepted everything about Bucky that confuses him. He likes to say it, to say Bucky’s full, legal name, and Bucky decides he likes hearing it on Steve’s lips. It helps break it in.

Bucky pulls the paper off, and runs the pads of his right fingers over the black, velvet top of a flat box, the size of a small tablet. At first, Bucky thinks Steve might have given him his own iPad, but it’s the wrong sort of box and far too light. “What is it?”

Steve laughs again. “You have to open it to find out. I hope you like it…”

Bucky isn’t sure what to do with that information, with the way Steve’s toes flex as he rocks back into the sofa, awaiting Bucky’s verdict. The velvet box opens like a clamshell, and inside is a large metal band, gold and shiny. “...What is it?” Bucky asks again, suddenly intimidated to touch the thing. He’s still learning about money, but it just _looks_ expensive.

Steve opens his mouth to answer, but instead sits up on his knees and plucks the gold circle from the fitted foam insert. Bucky catches sight of the red enamel star, and instantly knows what he’s looking at. “I know you don’t like to talk about this sort of thing, but I noticed… Well, we’ve been having a hard time at the VA, talking to felines who struggle after their collars are removed. The transition has been hard for civilian cats, but for some reason the SCFs—Well, even with regular dog tags they insist… _Here._ It opens like this…” Steve demonstrates how the three-piece metal collar opens with low-profile hinges, and fastens at the front with a clever little latch. The latch locks with a  claw-shaped clasp at the end of a delicate chain, the metal glittering in the lamplight. The whole thing is elegant, yet simple. The enamel star hangs like a license tag from the clasp, a perfect replica from his first metal arm, complete with engraved lines where the plates had run through the original one.

“I hope I made the right call with the star.” Steve sits back on his heels, leaving the beautiful collar in Bucky’s hands, but Bucky can’t answer this painfully sweet gesture with words just yet. “We can get something else if you prefer. Or even nothing, but the tag can be programmed with—”

“Put it on?” Bucky’s voice comes out in a gasp as he begs. “Please?”

But Steve puts up both hands, disarmed. “This one is designed for you to put on yourself. You’re never going to be collared by a human ever again. Even me. _Especially_ me.”

Bucky blinks back tears for the second time that hour, then closes the gold loop around his own throat. Steve is right. The simple clasp is easy to hook into place without looking. The star rests in the divot between his collar bones with a satisfying weight. Bucky smiles, and suddenly feels exhausted.

“Thank you,” he says, and the tears he’s been fighting finally spill over. He lunges into Steve’s lap, throws his arms around those huge shoulders, and buries his face into Steve’s neck. “Thank you, thank you. I love it.”

Steve strokes the long line of Bucky’s back, warm and strong. “You’re welcome,” he whispers into Bucky’s hair, then inhales deeply, like he’s drawing in Bucky’s own scent. “I love you. _So_ much.”

Bucky doesn’t say it back, afraid he’d just release the embarrassing sob that’s been building up in his chest, so he nods into Steve’s shoulder, and figures Steve knows anyway.

Steve kisses the side of his head, and asks, “Are you ready to go back to bed?”

Another nod is all Bucky can manage.

* * *

Steve doesn’t hesitate after Bucky finally relaxes, burrowing his face into Steve’s shoulder with a nod. He hoists the cat up in his arms, letting Bucky keep his face hidden. Bucky hates crying, hates it even more when Steve sees him do it, so Steve can’t let on that he’s noticed the sniffles.

It’s obvious that the cat has been fighting depression since they’ve moved to New York, vanishing for hours at a time in the middle of the night, or sometimes just silently staring down at the alley from just outside the living room window. Steve isn’t sure what’s worse. It’s bad enough that he has no way of tracking Bucky since he tends to leave his cellphone behind, but Steve wouldn’t have trusted that old fire escape to hold up a potted plant.

As the dust had settled on the North Lawn with the Secret Service, as they’d handled the massive media fallout with Lieutenant Lorraine, as they’d stood for the military inquiry, there had been no time to absorb this strange, new reality.

When Steve’d suggested they move to New York, Bucky’d seemed excited, but Steve figures neither of them had expected what a little time and distance could do to their combined efforts to avoid thinking about their lives. As it turns out, neither of them are really great at coping. Steve hasn’t said anything, but he sees the way Bucky’s ears perk up in alarm when news from Japan cycles across the near constant coverage of the ‘Hydra Conspiracy.’ There’s no avoiding it, sooner or later the Wakanda Movement will have to continue East. When that happens, Steve isn’t sure at all what Bucky will want to do.

Save his sister? Steve considers the colorful stack of Neko Yuki-chan jewel cases on the bedside table, but is reminded that Bucky had already refused to engage on the subject of finding his mother a new home.

At least Steve has his own mom, he considers with no small sense of guilt. Sarah has been spending more and more time in New York, visiting her legal practice that she swears she’s fully retired from by now, but consulting like a good, old fashioned workaholic. Steve still hasn’t told her what Bucky means to him, but wants to, whenever they’re all ready for it. He hasn’t spoken with his father since the hospital. The general likely still hasn’t forgiven Steve for tanking his pipeline deal, the president of the United States being a body-snatching tentacle monster _be damned_.

Steve spreads Bucky out on the bed, stroking his long, wooly tail. Bucky’s been shedding his winter fur, and even though Steve’d learned the hard way how rude that is to point it out, he can tell a bit of extra attention to Bucky’s itchy undercoat goes a long way in getting a purr out of his depressed cat. Bucky’s back arches as he brings his knees up, his body twisting into a satisfying ‘S’ as he hums, then rewards Steve with a blissed out little sigh. His eyes are damp, and he sniffles, but he’s smiling into the soft comforter.

“Feeling better?” Steve whispers.

“I love you too,” Bucky tells him, a little urgently, like he’s worried he’s too late to say it back. His tail curls happily against Steve’s thigh, triggering a flare of heat across Steve’s skin. Then, eyes sparkling, whispers shyly, “Kiss me?”

Steve grazes Bucky’s lips with his own, only teasing him with a butterfly kiss before pulling him in and releasing a hot breath into Bucky’s scruff.

“Ah!” Bucky squirms under the attention, his chest rising and falling as desire quickens between them. Steve licks a hot stripe from Bucky’s shoulder to jaw, tongue trailing over the body-warmed gold of Bucky’s new collar, and Bucky’s trapezius flexes under his lips. It’s almost painful, to be able to touch Bucky like this, to embrace these desires and force such helpless little noises from such a big, dangerous hunting cat. Suddenly, Steve can’t hold back how goddamn pleased he is anymore, overwhelmed by such simple joy, and laughs. Bucky takes advantage, slips out of Steve’s grasp and darts to the head of the bed on all fours, daring Steve to give chase with a frisky swish of his tail.

The cat nearly gets away before Steve decides to play dirty. As soon as Bucky scoots sideways, Steve gives an open hand slap across his ass. Bucky yelps, his tail darting between his knees, instantly tripping him up. Steve throws his whole weight down to pin him to the mattress, and attacks his ears with kisses.

“Ah! No! Stop!” Bucky laughs, ears fluttering as Steve’s breath tickles the sensitive, fine fur. Bucky rallies, boldly taking Steve’s face between his hands and captures Steve’s mouth with his own. Bucky is usually an adorably shy lover, relaxing into Steve’s embrace and reveling in the attention like someone who knows just how much they deserve to be pampered, but now he forces Steve up with his aggressive kiss, finding a dirty trick of his own. Suddenly, Steve winds up tossed on his back.

Bucky throws one knee on either side of Steve’s hips, but pauses just before he comes in for another kiss. “Thank you,” Bucky says again. “I didn’t think you knew. Didn’t think you’d understand at all.”

“I don’t,” Steve confesses, holding Bucky by the waist. The red star on Bucky’s collar flashes where it dangles alongside the delicate chain. Bucky is wearing a loose fitted t-shirt, a v-neck that accentuates the star’s points. The collar looks good on him, but Steve hopes one day the cat will feel comfortable without it. “I don’t think I could ever understand. Not really. But I don’t have to understand to know it’s something you need right now.”

Bucky smiles, sharing something extra warm and soft that he rarely lets anyone but Steve see. The cat quickly blinks as he rolls his eyes, hiding the emotion that bubbles up with another laugh. He leans down and kisses Steve, once, twice, then sends a rapid series of licks trailing down to the back of Steve’s ear.

Steve lets his hands wander, sweeping up the length of Bucky’s thighs, then tightening around the muscles of Bucky’s haunches. His cotton shorts are loose enough for Steve to sneak his hand up the pant leg, and he grips the curve of Bucky’s pelvis where his legs meets his narrow hips. Bucky wriggles pleasantly under the touch, and Steve bites his lip to stop himself from moaning at the friction against his stiffening cock, only for his hips to betray him with a compulsive hint of a thrust.

Bucky’s mouth returns, his tongue crossing Steve’s lips in a serrated sweep, demanding access that Steve is more than happy to grant. Bucky is careful, intimately familiar with the sharpness of his tiny spines, how easily they rasp against the sensitive inner flesh of Steve’s mouth. But Steve loves the sensation of Bucky’s barbs rolling smoothly inside, loves how they catch and tug gently against his own mouth, like they are two slotted pieces, interlocking. Bucky’s core body temperature is about fifteen degrees warmer than a human’s, his heart rate already galloping past Steve’s own as his kiss deepens, his hips rolling to meet Steve’s cautious thrusts. Bucky’s hard in his shorts, the soft cotton wicking moisture from his leaking cock into a damp circle, and Steve is trying his damndest to pull his own shirt off as the heat continues to pour in.

Why is he even wearing a hoodie in the first place? It’s not like it’s been that cold.

Bucky helps by pulling his own shirt off, but then Steve’s brain does a funny little stutter when he sees Bucky’s exposed skin, the tented front of his shorts, and the sparkling red jewel dangling from his throat.

“Damn,” Steve breathes out. “You look good.”

Bucky’s tail stands up at the compliment, his cheeks turn a bright shade of pink. He makes an attempt to look suave that lasts all of three seconds before he giggles, tail relaxing as he unselfconsciously enjoys the attention. Bucky settles on a quiet smile, long lashes lowered against his cheeks as he gazes down with a satisfied sigh. “I _feel_ good.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the corners as his smile grows, an expression Steve has come to know so well it takes a second before he considers how precious Bucky’s unguarded intimacy is. Bucky had once told Steve that as a human, Steve can’t really see him, can’t see the world the way Bucky does, but Steve hasn’t seen any soul more clearly. Bucky is just _Bucky_ , the sarcastic, protective, brave, beautiful person Steve chose to live his life alongside.

Steve sits up, meeting Bucky with a kiss, while the happy feeling lingers in his chest.

They sit like that a long time, lazily enjoying the heat, the wetness that glides across prickled skin. Steve kneads the base of Bucky’s tail, digs his fingers into the thick coat, scritches the patch of fur that trails up to his spine. Bucky shivers at the attention, his back arches as he revels in the simple pleasure. It doesn’t take long for his throat to unlock, a deep satisfied purr rumbling through his chest into Steve’s. Bucky likes it slow, gentle. He likes being spoiled by Steve’s creative finger work, of having to do very little as moans and shaking breath is drawn out of him by clever hands and exploring lips. Eventually, their pajamas come off, landing in a sweat soaked heap on the narrow strip of floor next to the bed.

Bucky’s mouth latches onto Steve’s nipple, ever-so-gently scraping his rough tongue over the puckered flesh. Steve’s pulse spikes, the grind over his sensitive chest enough to drive him to the edge. Bucky may be a shy lover, but he knows what Steve likes, knows just how much pressure to exert with the coarse surface of his tongue, with the seeking bite of his fangs, to bruise Steve’s peachy skin but not break it. The control that Bucky has over his own body is phenomenal, tactical. Steve gasps, clutches Bucky’s hair in his fist with a spasm and blurts out something incoherent along the lines of, “I’m close.”

Bucky brings him back from the brink with a few sloppy kisses, then buries his face into the side of Steve’s neck and latches onto the soft skin with his fangs. It’s a dominant gesture for felines, claiming their submissive mates by owning such a vulnerable part of anatomy. A feline’s scruff wraps around the back of the head and down the neck. Short, soft fur protects sensitive scent glands and nerve endings. A dominant cat always takes their mate, but Bucky’s body welcomes Steve’s cock easily, adapted to the mixed nature of their dynamic like Steve has adapted to the way Bucky makes love.

 _Gentle_ , Steve reminds himself, even as his own hips ache to leap up in a deliberate fuck. He slides past the entrance to Bucky’s body in a restrained, slow push, relishing Bucky’s tiny, needy gasps as they escape between his teeth as he takes Steve in. More heat, more slick, more deep, easy kisses and seeking bites. They take their time, Bucky barely flexing his thighs as Steve patiently thrusts, savoring each inch by delicious inch.

The sun comes up as Steve discovers a new rhythm. There’s something about Bucky’s tail, slowly drifting back and forth behind him, that also moves the inside of his body, and once Steve matches the cadence, Bucky encourages him with a desperate keen. It’s almost impossible to stop once he gets going, fucking in earnest. Bucky’s body clenches up around him and the cat finally bites down hard enough to hurt. That sends a bolt of lighting directly to the base of Steve’s cock, and his orgasm builds again. He drops his head to Bucky’s shoulder with a gasp of pain as the cat holds fast.

“Buck. Bucky!”

“Mm?” Bucky hums, releasing the soft skin of Steve’s neck from between his teeth and a tiny, soothing lick. Bucky leans back, ever so slightly, just enough to look Steve in the eye as his hands come up to thread long fingers in Steve’s sweaty hair. “You okay?”

Steve’s mind blanks of any decent thing to say. “Gonna come,” he inelegantly warns. Bucky groans in response, jaw clenching as he tilts his head back.

“Yes,” he says, and Steve circles Bucky’s lower back with both arms, crushing his lover tightly against him. Bucky feels so good, so soft, so warm sliding over Steve’s cock, fitted perfectly against Steve’s body. They are made for each other. A nerve between Steve’s belly and his balls pulls tight, muscles bunching as he thrusts up, and up, and up. Bucky cries out each time Steve lifts him off the mattress. “Steve!”

Steve grasps the root of Bucky’s tail as his own orgasm breaks like a wave, a shout of pleasure rushing up and out of his throat as Bucky goes rigid in his arms. As Steve crests the top of his climax, Bucky’s own orgasm hits hard, threads of come streaking across Steve’s chest, burning hot on his overstimulated skin. Bucky’s barbs claw into Steve’s navel as they throb against one another.

They stay like that, muscles straining, locked together in bliss, holding back their breath, holding back any sound at all, before the pleasure finally releases them, and they collapse in a happy pile of aching limbs and tenderness.

* * *

Bucky senses the sudden loss of warmth at his back before his ears prick up at the sound of Steve sliding out from beneath the covers. The human had managed to sneak up on him _one time_ and now thinks he can leave their bed without Bucky noticing?

“Mmmr?” Bucky inquires without any actual words.

“What was _that_?” Steve blurts out in a fit of laughter that’s far too loud for being this early.

“What?” Bucky murmurs, still refusing to open his eyes. And, because now he’s also confused, “What was what?”

“That sound,” Steve goes on, and Bucky follows the soft thump of Steve’s footsteps out of their room and into the hall. From there Steve continues, out of reach of Bucky’s frown. “You always told me cats don’t meow.”

“We _don’t_ ,” Bucky snaps. Why is Steve picking on him? Isn’t it Sunday? Steve shouldn’t be getting up at all, unless he promised another weekend to the VA’s new feline division. Bucky hears the squeaky bathroom tap, and more uninteresting noises as Steve fucks around instead of coming back to bed. He should have at least given Bucky a few ear scratches before getting up. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I’m coming back,” Steve calls out, over the sound of rushing water. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Bucky chuffs into the corner of Steve’s pillow, which wound up scrunched under his elbow somehow, then curls his tail close to his face, keeping his body sprawled out across the covers. He’s still naked, and unpleasantly sticky.

Suddenly, his skin warms at the memory of last night, and not just from the subtle ache lingering after amazing sex. He touches the gold collar, pinches the points of the star between his fingers, pressing a line into the side of his throat. To think that Steve had understood exactly what Bucky had wanted, exactly what he’d needed, makes him feel funny inside, like he’s too full of emotions he’s not quite sure what to do with. He’d never spoken out loud about his anxiety for the missing collar, for the pride he’d had in that red star. Not in words, anyway. But it’s like Steve no longer needs words to understand Bucky, to know him inside and out.

It’s like Steve can finally see… _him_.

Bucky flops onto his back, stretches, and lets that feeling settle over him. He runs his finger over the star on his brand new collar one more time, letting the delicate metal chain plink across the wide band, then touches it with his left hand, to test how it feels under the metal fingertips. His new arm is definitely an upgrade, able to simulate the long lost sensation of hot and cold, and has a much broader range of pressure sensitivity. His left index finger trails along the rim of the polished, gold collar, and Bucky knows it’s smooth, glossy to the touch, no friction against the metal fingertip whatsoever.

It’s beautiful, Bucky thinks, then frowns. It must have cost a _fortune_.

Bucky finally blinks into the dim, early morning light of their tiny apartment, and listens to Steve shuffle around the bathroom across the hall. It’s not long before he returns, wearing fresh shorts and nothing else, but holding a damp, steaming towel.

“I thought it’d be nice to clean up a bit,” he says, crawling back over the covers. He flops down on his stomach, plants a loud kiss on Bucky’s thigh then presses the hot cloth between his legs and Bucky gasps. Steve glances up, eyebrows popping in concern, before he smiles. “Feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Steve nods, carefully cleaning away all the evidence from last night. His movements are slow, deliberate, more tender than if Bucky had been handling his own body, and with each clean swipe of the towel he presses another, unselfconscious kiss into Bucky’s warm skin. “So I’ve been thinking…” Steve says, working his way up to Bucky’s belly fuzz. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but thinks there aren’t a whole lot of great conversations that start this way. “I mean, it’s something I’ve been thinking a lot about. I wanted to know if maybe you’d thought about it, too. There’s a lot of kittens turning up at the recruiters, looking for a military license. I think a lot of them admire the Winter Soldier.”

“The Winter Soldier wasn’t meant to be a, a—” Bucky searches for the word. “A _recruitment_ tool.”

“No, no, don’t take it that way,” Steve says, “It’s great, actually. Thanks to Rhodey and Sam’s work, the military is probably one of the best jobs out there for free cats. It’s just, not many of them are cut out for it. The CFC has been rolling out education and placement programs but… there’s just so many of them. What they really need is a home.”

Steve pauses here, his hot towel no longer trailing over Bucky’s bare hips.

“...And?” Bucky prompts, suddenly suspicious. Steve usually only stalls like this when he’s leading up to a guilty confession. Something he knows Bucky’ll hate.

“And I just wanted to know what you might think.” Steve’s voice goes up, like he’s asking a question, even though he doesn’t quite get there. “If... maybe we adopted one.”

Steve pulls the towel away and sits back on his heels, watching for Bucky’s reaction, which is to stare at him because he can’t believe Steve could ask him something like that. “You want another cat?”

Steve’s eyebrows come together as he thinks about the question. He’s been good about that recently, taking the extra time to consider Bucky’s objections from his feline point of view before answering. It’s something he’s learned from his new work at the VA, speaking with so many more cats than just Bucky now that the military is finally offering them real benefits.

“That’s not what I mean,” Steve says, once he figures out how to respond. “I don’t want ‘another cat’, Buck. I want—I mean, if you _also_ want—I want to see what we could do for a kitten that needs a home.”

Bucky’s tail flicks out of Steve’s hands when he tries to stroke the fur, because he doesn’t get to pet Bucky like that when he’s talking about this. Licenses may no longer be required for felines to go about their day to day lives, but young cats—minors—can still be taken in by humans, only now it’s referred to as ‘fostering’ rather than ‘keeping.’ Bucky is suspicious about the whole thing, but Steve had explained to him already that it’s a ‘stepping stone.’ Still, kittens are born in twos and threes. Fostering one kitten means taking it away from its family. “Why? What would you do with it?”

Steve gives a helpless little laugh. “Raise them, Buck. I’d want to raise them, with you. I want to start a family together.”

 _A family?_ Bucky stares, still not sure what that means as Steve watches him flounder.

When it’s finally obvious to him that Bucky isn’t catching on, Steve awkwardly repeats himself. “Only a kitten that needs a home. We’d be parents, Buck. _Together._ ”

A family. _Parents_. Together. With Steve.

_Oohhhhhh._

Out of nowhere, Bucky’s heart reaches for Brooklyn, but he doesn’t admit that out loud. Brooklyn had wound up staying in DC, working with Major Wilson on the feline VA program there. It hadn’t occurred to Bucky to see if that little jerk would have wanted to come with him. He eyes Steve, wondering what they might think of each other. Probably not much. Stubbornness and moral superiority don’t mesh well with so much ego. Bucky doesn’t even know which one he might be thinking about more, but it equally applies to both of them. The tiny feline and the huge human, probably the worst-case-scenario for building a ‘family.’

Bucky’s mouth has been hanging open long enough for his tongue to dry, so he clicks his teeth shut and finally swallows while he tries to find the words to answer.

“Okay, you hate it,” Steve says, folding the damp towel.

“I didn’t say I hate it.”

“Your tail does.”

Bucky snaps a look at the troublesome thing, thumping the mattress irritably behind him. “Don’t put words in my tail’s mouth.”

Steve unfolds the towel, only to fold it back up again, this time rolling it into a tidy knot. He isn’t used to being wrong, and always winds up with something to occupy his hands when he’s feeling nervous. “Hey, forget it. I just wanted to know what you thought, and now I do. It’s nothing.” Steve smiles, shrugs, and pretends it doesn’t bother him. “Too complicated, anyway, with everything going on.”

Well, that’s certainly true. Steve hasn’t said it out loud, but Bucky knows the theory that must be playing through his mind. Pierce hadn’t been the only one of those things. The CFC’s influence in Japan is still strong as ever, fully supported by their emperor.

Japan. _Becca_. What would Bucky do for a chance to see her again?

Bucky adjusts his position, making room for Steve to relax beside him again. For now, this will have to be enough. Their home, filled with love; their lives, filled with patience and understanding. Bucky couldn’t ask for more.

“So, Bucky…” Steve says, his voice dropping low, almost a whisper.

“Hmm?”

“What was that sound again? _Merrr?_ ” Steve holds a straight face for all of two seconds before he starts laughing, and Bucky bites him on the shoulder hard enough to make the human yelp.

Patience and understanding only go so far.

 

**The End**

* * *

 

Bucky and Steve at the start of their adventures by the incredible [tastelikekeys](http://tasteslikekeys.tumblr.com/post/175932195618/fun-commission-for-resinonao3-inspired-by-their)

Bucky and Steve getting a few intimate snuggles at the end of their journey by [MTO](http://mto-art.tumblr.com/post/176130739005/thank-you-resinonao3-for-commissioning-this)...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That's it :)
> 
> I have to give an extra huge thanks to Sno for fantastic, patient, and lightning fast beta work on these last four chapters. I wouldn't have been able to finish the fic I felt everyone deserved without that expert guidance. 
> 
> Another huge thanks to Demi, Sula, and Lys. The ladies of The Trench who have been with me through thick and thin, encouraged and loved all my cat Bucky fantasies from day 1. 
> 
> This has been a life changing experience for me, moreso than any of my other fics. A personal fantasy turned into a political mission turned into my second job and a gateway to protecting a cat I have loved for years. It's honestly been an honor to share this with everyone. I can't express with words how much the comments, kudos, and Tumblr asks have meant to me! Thank you everyone for coming along on this ride!
> 
> I've got one more little short to share with this series, though I'm not sure when I'll post it. I want to work out a few surprises (via Tumblr) before I truly am ready to say goodbye to this AU. Hope to see everyone there!

**Author's Note:**

> Come join me on [Tumblr](https://resinonao3.tumblr.com/) to chat about cat Bucky!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Darling, Dinner Will Just Have to Wait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10753749) by [Lasgalendil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil)




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